Where the Grass Grows Green II: On Bended Knee
by Ragnelle
Summary: AU. The Quest failed and darkness rules the lands of Middle-earth. For the captives in the Land of Shadow, hope is bleak, and at best they strive to stand, even if only on their knees. And Sauron is set on bending Elessar to his will. Book two of six.
1. Prologue

"_Oh Samwise, bravest and truest of men.  
Oh Samwise, Gardener of The Shire.  
Samwise, you with earth beneath your fingernails_

_Oh Samwise, did you know what sorrow you would cause? With one bright stab of anger, one rash act born of love and fear, you sealed the fate of your master. Oh Samwise, why did you not stay your hand? Why did you not spare the creature?_

_Oh, Sam! How should you have known it would have spared the world?"_

_(Unknown lament.)_

…

"_If [Sauron] regains [the Ring], your valour is vain, and his victory will be swift and complete: so complete that none can foresee the end of it while this world lasts."_

_(Gandalf at The Last Debate.)_

…

Gandalf was considered among the Wise, and his advice and predictions were seldom wrong. But though indeed it seemed, for a while, that Sauron's reign would endure until the last age had passed, it was not so.

The grass still grew long on the wide plains and thick in the hidden valleys of the mountain range, stubborn as weeds. Last to give way, and first to re-grow, though trampled by iron-shoes.


	2. The Fall of the West

**What has gone before (for new readers. Feel free to skip):**

This work is the second book of "Where the Grass Grows Green", a dark AU of which I have planned six books, corresponding more or less to the books of LotR. The main premise of this tale of "what if", is the question: "What would have happened if Sam killed Gollum before he entered Mount Doom?"

My answer is rather dark, as I believe the quest would have failed and Sauron regained his Ring. Yet not completely without hope.

The first book follows those that escaped from the Battle of the Black Gate and later Minas Tirith. A group, taking the name of the Faithful, resisted the Dark Lord. Their leaders took refuge in Fangorn Forest. Ten years after the defeat, a small group of the Faithful lead by Éomer, travel to the town of Calembel in the south of Gondor in seach of food. There they hear news that brings them new hope. Leaving their task of buying food for their people in Fangorn, they hasten to Minas Tirith in a desperate bid to save that hope.

We left them as they had penetrated the dungeons underneath the Citadel and finally found the cell of the one they sought:

Lord Aragorn.

…

**Book one** can be found in my profile under the name _Where the Grass Grows Green I: We May Yet Stand_. While knowledge of the fist book is not needed for the first part of this, the whole work is intended as one, continuous story — rather like LotR itself — and in later parts, characters and the story arch from the first book will merge with this. Reading just book two will feel at bit like reading only the story of Frodo and Sam, with no knowledge of what happens to the rest of the Fellowship once they have parted.

_**Warnings: **_Rated for violence and character deaths.

_**Disclaimer**__: _All characters and places are the property of the Tolkien estate. This is written purely for entertainment and at no monetary gain.

* * *

**Chapter One: The Fall of the West**

"_I can not forget that day. However I have tried, I can not. The din of the battle and the smell of decay, there through the whole desperate struggle. I did not notice then, but in my memory the scents and sounds are clear; the smell of rotten weeds and dead things from the Marshes mingling with the blood and sweat and fear on the plains, the din of sword striking on sword, shaft on shaft and the screams of the dying drowning the grunts of efforts from those fighting._

_Then silence came, and I heard._

_The flapping of the eagles' wings, the breath of the men around me and the beating of our hearts. The wind blowing, hissing between the jagged stones, the humming of the earth silenced in one breathless moment when all we could do was wait and hope._

_Wait, one endless heartbeat._

_Then darkness fell, and all our hopes with it. I sensed more than saw Gandalf falling beside me, untouched. The first lines were swept away in the new rush of enemies. The sons of Elrond separated by the throng, and the Dúnedain scattered. I saw Imrahil fall from the blow of a club and his men slaughtered. The second line held just long enough for me to gather my wits and call a standard-bearer to me, and prepare to meet the onslaught. I could only hope that Éomer would understand my thought and seize the chance if my plan failed._

_And why would it not fail, when all other plans had?_

_The only thing left now was to die in battle, and take as many of the enemy with me as I could. Or so I hoped, for death would now be better than life; we had failed. _I_ had failed, and I would fall into shadow with the rest of my kind. And so I lead the White Tree and the Seven Stars down into the dark water crashing against our small island, to drown in the overwhelming wave. No ships to bear us, not through this._

_It closed around us. I do not know how many men were cut down bearing the banner; a new bearer would pick it up whenever it was felled, until the last one planted it in the ground before he fell. I could not see if any remained fighting. I stood alone. The only tree to be seen the White one, the only stars: the Seven above._

_They knew I could not stand against them. I knew that I could not; death should have come quick. Instead they jeered and played with me, though those that came close enough did pay the price, and for a time a cry sounded over the field, echoing in my mind, sounding and resounding over the jeers._

_"Elendil!"_

_They kept back, unwilling to brave my blade. Surrounded in the growing dark, I would rather face the last light, and as the evening wind hissed over stone and dust I turned towards the West. _Day shall come again,_ but who should live to see it come?_

_Then the Nazgûl returned and the wave swallowed me."_

…

Few reliable testimonies can be found regarding the fate of the lord Elessar and those that did not escape the battle of the Black Gate. This account, given by King Elessar himself, is one of the few that have survived, and one of the few from his own mouth. Despite the difficulties of such sparse material, I have been able to piece together the events following that day, and the tale of the King's fate from his capture and through the ten years that followed. The latter proved easier, for the Enemy, it seemed, recorded much, and the Steward too gave accounts of what he knew. Other testimonies as well, I have gathered; most valuable of those the King's own renderings, come to me through my grandfather. Through them I have attempted to construct a coherent story that may serve to explain some of the choices that were made, and the events that followed. Even so, my tale is not complete, for there is much the King never revieled. And I will not bore the readers with what I have already told, unless I deem it of interest to hear another's acount. The memory can be a fragile thing, and no doubt my readers will be able to spot the differences of the events told here, and those told earlier. I have not been able myself to allways dictern the true account, so I give them here as told by those trapped under the Shadow.

We know that Aragorn, the Lord Elessar, was the last to be captured. Whether this was because of his skill or the Enemy's design is unclear. No doubt remains that it was on the Enemy's orders that he be taken alive, and that might explain why he did not fall earlier in the battle though we know his skill in battle was great. Others, whom the Enemy also desired to take alive, had been overwhelmed early: Gandalf the White, who was struck down from afar by the Enemy's power; Imrahil of Dol Amroth, who was wounded when the enemy broke through the first lines. But the King fought long.

Fiercely he fought. Blocking, ducking, weaving through the dark sea, drawing the enemy to him. Aragorn fought until the day ended, until his strength gave out and he stumbled in weariness.

Around him the orcs jeered. He jumped back from a blade, barely stepping back in time; the tip cut him, breaking the skin of his temple, near the eye. He parried and struck back before he blinked the blood away. The orcs drew back, and he stayed. Heaving for breath, he waited. Andúril rested on the ground, the tip dragging in the dirt beside him while slowly he turned. He watched his enemies, and they watched him.

They saw him drag his feet. "Put down your sword," they jeered. "Give up, _tark_! Your men are gone. The Eye has won, and he will have you before the day has passed."

He did not answer, only shifted his grip and continued his slow turns.

The jeers grew louder, and the orcs drew closer again, encouraged by his weakness. He sensed movement, and spun with a speed that belied his earlier stumbling. His sword flickered up; blocked, twisted, thrust; and the orc fell.

They drew back once more, and he grinned: They feared him still.

He drew himself up, to stand tall before them. At his back the White Tree bloomed and the Stars shone against the Black. Here he would stand, as long as his banner stood. And fall with it.

His eyes burned. "Begone!" he shouted. "Or fall before my blade, and your master's triumph shall avail you little."

His boaster was met with taunts and mocking laughter, then with silence. The orcs parted. Haradrim horsemen rode through the throng. Their leader halted.

"Why is this man not dead or bound?" he asked the nearest orc. The creature shrank from him and whined.

"That is their king," it said.

The Man looked up at Aragorn. He saw the Silver and White, the green stone still visible around his neck. The Star. The sword. The stance.

"Surrender!" he called. "The Lord of Gifts is merciful, and you have lost. Surrender now, and you may yet know his blessings."

"I know his blessings," Aragorn replied. "Sauron knows not mercy, and his gifts are lies."

The captain shook his head, but he smiled. "You are proud," he said. "Pride I understand." He dismounted then, and drew his sword. His men followed him, and he barked an order. The orcs closed behind them. Swords were sheathed, but instead those with whips and sticks and wooden clubs drew close. The Men had daggers in their belts, ready to be drawn, but the only edges that still were bare, were Andúril and the captain's sword.

Aragorn waited. His sword pointed to the ground, an iron gate to block all attacks.

The captain did not wait. He came, striking from above, with a cry of war. Aragorn met him.

"Elendil!"

He stepped aside, let the cut glance off his sword and pass him by. Stepping close he struck the captain with the pommel. The captain stumbled back, and Aragorn followed. Andúril glittered through the air, down towards the captain. But weariness slowed him, and ice gripped his chest. Above, unheeded in the fight, great wings bore the Nazgûl back to the battle. It shrieked, and Aragorn faltered at the sound. Then he recovered, and struck.

But the captain had recovered as well. Now he, in turn, deflected. Too close for swords, the captain stepped around and locked Andúril to the ground with his own sword. He slammed his elbow into Aragorn's chest, and Aragorn — trapped between the arm and the captain's leg — was thrown backwards.

Stunned he lay, and heaved for breath. The horde of orcs and men closed in. They struck with whips and sticks and fists. He writhed in the dust, twisting from the blows, rolling to escape, to stand, to fight; but they pinned him to the ground and held him until he could no longer fight. They forced his sword from his hand and twisted his arms to bind them; pushed his face into the ground to keep him still. Dirt filled his mouth. The stench of sweat and blood and the filth of orcs around him. The smell of stagnant pools and mud. He struggled against their hands and claws, but they bound his legs, his eyes.

They stepped aside, and he lay heaving on the ground. Silence fell around him and at that moment all he could hear was his own breath, and the whisper of the evening wind, hissing in his ears.

Footsteps. Someone stood above him.

"Take the standard and his sword," the captain said. "Bring them and him. Strip him for weapons, but leave all else untouched; the Lieutenant wants him unspoiled."

Hands searched him, tore belt and scabbard from his side. A knee pressed into his back, fingers twisted in his hair and tugged his head up.

"Where is your pride now?" the captain asked. "You should have surrendered, or fallen on your sword ere you let yourself be captured. Now your honour is forfeit, and your pride dead."

"Not yet," Aragorn answered. "Each moment I fought, gave Éomer time to escape. Each man I slew, was one man less to attack. And soon I will be dead, and thus escape your master."

"I would not count on it."

He released his hair and stood. "Gag him, then bring him. The Mouth of the Master will see him."

They ripped cloth from his own sleeve to bind his mouth. He strove to breathe around it; they did not care. It tasted of dried blood, and dust and dirt. Soon fresh blood mingled with the old, seeping into the cloth from the wound on his face.

They dragged him back. He could not see the vast armies of the Enemy spread around the slag-hills, the camp erected outside the Black Gate or the scavengers seeking among the fallen. Around him the horses of the Haradrim tumbled, Men and Orcs pressed around and many tongues and voices rose in triumph. The noise went before him, followed him, surrounded him and swallowed up all other noises he should have heard: the moans and cries of the wounded; the terror of dying beasts; the calling of his name.

They stopped. The din dwindled, and the sound of the field when the battle is done, drifted back. Familiar sounds; all fields sound the same whether lost or won. Men replaced the clawed hands of orcs and he was dragged forward again; his feet too tightly bound for him to walk or stand. The rough fabric of a tent brushed against him, the sound of a voice questioning the Men, and he was thrown to the ground in answer.

"Here he is, lord, the one you wished for: their king."

Aragorn waited. It was hard to hear above the blood drumming in his ears. The tent was silent and though he strained to hear, there was nothing but the dull _thump, thump, thump_ of his blood. He felt, more than heard, movement and flinched before he could steel himself. A toe nudged at him and then drew back. More movement, and he was hauled to his knees. The blindfold was removed.

The tent was lit with many lights, but Aragorn looked straight ahead, into the folds of dark robes. Sable trimmed the edges of the cloth, the fur glossy against the dull black of the fabric. He traced the weaving and the seams.

"Look at me."

One of the furs was lighter than the others, a small imperfection hidden at the bottom of the hem. The stitching was rougher there as well, as if it had been replaced by one less deft. He caught the flicker of a gesture in the corner of his eye. _Do not think of it._ _The robe, think of.._.. The robe was wide, and far too little worn for the sable to need replacement.

Hands wrenched his head up, to look at the Man. The nameless one. The Lieutenant of Barad-dûr.

The Mouth smiled. He held a sword in his hands, turning it over. Aragorn jerked when he recognised it, but he was held in place. He shifted his gaze, tried to look past the man, but that did not help him much. Behind the Lieutenant was the banner, _his _banner: The one Halbarad had brought, the one Arwen had made. He swallowed, but made no other movement.

"Thy rabble hath not helped thee, brigand king," the Mouth said. He made a gesture, and one of the men took the Elessar and the Star of the North from Aragorn and handed it to him. He took it and let it swing from his hand. "Pieces of Elvish glass and a famous sword; didst thou really think it would have won thee thy crown?

Aragorn did not answer. Could not answer. He stared past the Mouth, refusing to meet his eyes. It made the other sneer. He leaned down, until his breath was hot on Aragorn's face. He gripped his chin, forcing him to look him in the eye.

"Thou couldst never win."

Aragorn held his eyes and stared back. Strove in silence, as they had done before the fight begun. A moment, then the Lieutenant's gaze flickered. He drew back, and struck.

If not for the hands holding him, Aragorn would have fallen. His vision darkened, and he reeled with the blow, but before he could steel himself for what might come, a messenger interrupted.

"The Lord's servant is here for the prisoner."

The icy fear that heralded the _nazgûl_ descended over the tent. The guards stiffened. Their hands gripped tighter on Aragorn, but they shook. The Mouth turned to the messenger, and the guards standing by the opening.

"Tell him that he will be brought shortly," he instructed the messenger. The man bowed and left, and the Lieutenant gestured to the soldiers before he turned back to Aragorn. The soldiers stepped further into the tent, and Aragorn marked their steps. They did not come for him, but went to a heap of white cloth.

_A Elbereth!_

The Mouth laughed. "Didst thou think thyself great?" he mocked. "Didst thou think the lord Sauron would fear thee and covet thee? Didst thou think He would send his servant to fetch _thee_? His mind is on things far greater than an uncrowned king." He watched Aragorn to gauge the impact of his words, but he showed no sign that he had heard. His eyes followed the body of the wizard dragged towards the tent's door.

"He lives, and bears no wound," the Mouth said. The tent-flap closed, and hid them from sight. Aragorn turned his head, and for the first time sought the Lieutenant's eyes uncompelled.

"He was the most powerful among you, and now he will serve Lord Sauron well." He smiled, the glee barely hidden in his eyes. "He has other plans for thee, but fear not, crownless king: thou wilt serve Him also."

Aragorn's eyes flashed. He could not answer, he had no room to fight, but with his whole being he denied him. He held the other's eyes, his body calm as if there were no hands to keep him on his knees, no ropes to hold him bound. No mud and blood and dirt to stain him. He held the other's eyes, and told him _no_.

The Mouth stepped back. He blanched and faltered. Outside, the _nazgûl_ took to the air and the clammy ice lifted from the tent, chasing the beast speeding through the air back to its master. The Mouth regained himself, and stood tall. His eyes flickered but his voice was calm.

"Take him away; he will learn his place."

"Lord?" The captain, who had stood quietly observing the events unfold, stepped forward.

"Have a healer see if he has any hidden wound, then leave him to his rest." He looked at Aragorn. "He will serve."

The stiff patch of dried blood scraped against the wound beside his eye and all he saw was darkness once more. They hauled him up and dragged him away. Through the whisker of cloth, through the shouts and stamping feet, to the screams and whimpers of wounded where they stopped. They would not let him stand, and so he hung between his guards, searching for some sound than could tell him what would come next.

The captain spoke, and through his words Aragorn knew more. "Healer, come here. The Mouth of the Great Lord wished that this prisoner be checked."

"Is he dying? No? Then set him over there," a voice replied. "I will see him when there is time; our own wounded are dying before my eyes. I lost one already while wasting time to patch up another of his kind. At least _those_ wounds were grave."

"You will look at him _now_," the captain said. "You need only see whether he bears any hidden wounds. He is to be kept alive; some plan for the war."

"I thought the war was won."

"The war, but not all battles are done. His life may save many of our people's." There was a pause. The captain's voice, when he spoke again, was low and full of threats. "It will save yours."

The healer sounded tired. "Over there," he said. "I must finish wrapping this wound, or this soldier of _our_ people will bleed out."

Aragorn was dragged again, but when they stopped, he was pushed down to sit at some tall bench. Or bed; it was too broad to be a bench. Cloth covered the surface, and from what he could guess, there was straw beneath. Around him were the groans and muttered, senseless speech all wounded speak.

The captain called the healer once more, impatient to leave.

"It is the will of the Great Lord," the captain's voice drifted closer again.

"Yes, yes, yes," the healer answered. "I will remember it. And you remember it, too, the next time it is you that needs my skill."

Aragorn shifted a little on the bed. He was sore, and stiff from the fighting, and the bonds became harder to bear each moment. He could feel it now, when there was nothing to do but sit and wait, and guess at sounds.

"Well, then," the healer said. Aragorn startled; the healer was far closer than he had guessed. "Let me look at this prisoner who is worth so much to our Lord." There was a silence, then he spoke again.

"I cannot practise my craft with a patient so bound, captain."

"Yes, you will. You need but confirm that his wounds are not grave. The rest can wait."

The healer snorted. "When did you learn my craft?"

There was a rustle, and sudden movement around him. Aragorn strained to hear, to sense, what happened. The captain's voice helped him guess.

"Where are you going, old man?"

"To treat those I can, and who need it. You wish me to see if this man has hidden wounds? Then I must see his eyes, and have him answer when I ask. Any wounds I could detect by just seeing his body, you could find as well as I."

Another silence.

"Very well."

Night had fallen. He should have guessed it from the lights in the Mouth's tent, from the way the sun had turned red before his capture, yet he had not expected the darkness around him. No canvas hid the camp from him; the wounded had no tent to shelter them against the night. But beyond the light of fires and the torchlight the healers used, was nothing but a dark wall. No stars, no sky. He moved his jaw and would have spat the taste from his mouth, but the healer took hold of his head.

"I need more light."

More torches came, and Aragorn closed his eyes against the light. _Too bright, too bright_.

"I know." The healer's thumbs against his eyes lifted one eyelid. "But I need to see your eyes." The healer mumbled, and opened the other lid. He let go and Aragorn screwed his eyes shut before he blinked against the dark spots.

"Hmm," the healer said. Nothing more. He began to prod and poke, finding with unerring fingers the sore and bruised spots. When Aragorn could not answer his questions — his mouth too dry to speak — the healer had water brought.

"Drink, then speak. I will hear no lies, but neither will I try to understand the words you try to cough." He held the water-skin to Aragorn's lips.

Cool and soothing the water filled his mouth. Cleaning out the dust and mud and gravel from his voice, cleansing tongue and cavern free of the taste of blood and sweat and the dirty cloth.

And the healer prodded and asked again, and kept a comment for the captain who stood impatient beside. Aragorn did little but sit and wait until the healer would finish; he had no wish to hasten him, but he did as told.

"Keep the cuts clean: infection can kill as easy as a sword."

The captain said nothing. The healer tapped Aragorn on the shoulder. "Lie down on your back."

The guards grabbed him before he could move and pushed him down.

"Help me with the clothes."

Hands pulled, hard and impatient. No longer calm, he struggled, but they held him down and pushed the layers away. The healer's hands were cold against his skin. He clenched his teeth. _Do not speak, do not scream!_ Was this all it took? They did not even try to harm him, but the Mouth had not caused him to feel as helpless as did this.

The healer muttered to himself. His hands disappeared, but came back to hold Aragorn's head and pushed back his eyelids again.

"Any pain?"

"No."

He whispered the answer. Kept his eyes closed. The healer was silent for a while.

"Well, then," he said, and his voice was gruff. "Get him up again, this way; it is better light on this side."

They hauled him up again, and the healer asked him to open his eyes again. The light was less painful now, and he could see past the healer, to the other beds close by. He caught the glimpse of dark hair on the bed beside him before the healer spoke again to ask of any dizziness. "No," he said, and the healer stepped away. He was speaking to the captain, but Aragorn did not hear their words. He stared at the man lying in the bed beside him.

He knew him.

Dark hair, proud face, his eyes closed in sleep, if sleep it was. He was pale, with the sickly colour of the gravely hurt, but Aragorn knew him.

"Imrahil."

He dared not speak too loud, lest the captain heard. But either Imrahil was in too deep a sleep, or his voice was too low; the Prince did not stir. Aragorn could not see his wounds, but he saw the chain around his neck that bound him to the bed. His wounds too deep, then, for him to be a risk. Aragorn recalled him standing in the first line, falling beneath the dark wave. He'd thought him dead, and could not say if it was luck that spared him.

Before he could see more, or try to speak with him again, the darkness and the gag were back. He was hauled to his feet and the healer's voice followed him as he was dragged away:

"Remember what I said; keep the wounds clean, and change those ropes with chains."

The captain gave no answer.

Aragorn could not hear whether the captain accompanied his men. There were too many sounds to single out one man's stride, and all of them muffled by the blindfold that also covered his ears: The sound of many feet, the feet of man and orc and beast. The din of many voices; the lamenting of the grieving, cries of the wounded, and the mocking jeers that followed him, and through it all the thrumming of blood in his ears. The _thump, thump,_ _thump_ing of his heartbeat.

He could feel, more than hear, when the crowd around him thickened. When they pressed around him, causing his guards to slow their pace. He was jolted. His feet scraped over the ground and the grip of the guards tightened. They slowed to a stop.

"The king!" A shout was heard. "It is their cursed king!"

The shout was taken up by many voices. "The king! The king!" and the voices of orcs mixed and blended with the voices of the men: "The _tark_ king!" and "Let us have him, he has killed enough of us."

Aragorn was tense, but calmer than he had been under the healer's hands. This, _this_ was expected.

Something cold and moist and wet hit his cheek. He flinched and fought the urge to duck his head. Mud, or some unsavoury thing; it dribbled down his face. The shouts grew louder, hands grabbed at him – new hands – and he had time to think that perhaps, perhaps it would be better. The hands pulled at him, but the guards held on and Aragorn hissed as they tore at him from different sides.

The crowd pushed in from all sides; clashing waves that rolled and turned and he was carried with the currents, drifting helpless. A leaf tossed in the gust of the wind, held up by the press around him.

But the wind abated, and the sea calmed. Slowly and in degrees the crowd silenced, and fell away. Aragorn hung once more in the grip of his guards. He tried to clear his mind. Tried to breathe, his breaths loud in his ears. A voice broke through the silence, rough and low.

"Disperse," the captain said. "Do not thwart the Great Lord's plans."

"Ach!" another said, grating and loud. "The lads will not stay back for long, if that's all you have. '_Disperse_'" it mocked. "Pshaw!" The orc – no other could make any tongue sound so foul – spat, and Aragorn flinched, expecting to be hit again. But no spit came his way, and the orc spoke again.

"Listen, maggots!" he bellowed. "You're to keep your hands off this one here, or you'll lose more than hands; the Eye'll have your flesh stripped from your bones. Get off to sleep, while you can, there'll be more fighting soon enough. We've won the war, but those _tarks_ and elves will be too stubborn to admit it. And if I hear any grumbling, you'll all be in the group that marches tomorrow.

"Now off with you, or more of you'll taste my blade."

The crowd slunk away, the sound of them dwindling into the background. The captain gave a snort of disdain.

"You don't like my ways." The orc did not ask, and the captain did not answer right away. The two guards stood still, as if waiting for some order, and Aragorn could only hang between them and wait. And listen.

"Killing your men without further judgement? I find it wasteful, and unfitting," the captain answered.

If he had been able, Aragorn would have laughed, but it would have been bitter. Saved by the blade of an orc?

"Don't want to dirty your hands, eh?" The orc spat again, and Aragorn could not help tensing. "_Skai!_ It is the only way to make 'm fear you; without fear, they don't obey."

"I find that my men obey me better when they are alive."

"And who made them _disperse_?" the orc countered. "Eh? Who broke 'm up? You just pose on that fancy horse and steal our prize, but who does the real work around here? Orcs, and you know it. We obey our own."

"We all serve the Great Lord," the captain said. "You have been of some small service here, _Uruk_, but now you are hindering us."

The orc laughed at that. "You know how to threaten after all," it said. Aragorn could feel it lean close; he could smell its breath, feel it on his skin. Claws gripped his face. "Your flesh would have tasted sweet," it hissed. "But the Eye will burn it from your bones. If you are lucky. Do not think we have saved you, _tark_."

It spat, and this time it did spit on him. Aragorn tried to tear his head away, and the orc laughed again. It let go and stepped back.

"That is enough," the captain said. The orc answered before he said more:

"He is all yours."

The guards dragged Aragorn away once more. He heard the captain speak again, but he paid it no heed. His shoulders were sore and bruised from many hands, and the spit and… other things… itched and tickled, and he could not wipe it from his face.

Ahead he heard the sound of another crowd. He lacked the strength to do other than bite the gag and clench his bound hands. But the guards did not tense nor harden their grips. Soon he heard: the sound was that of men – wounded and in pain. Closer and closer to the sounds he was dragged, and he could hear the rattling of chains, the crash of metal upon metal, and the shouts of Men.

"Chieftain!"

He tried to turn his head towards the voice; he knew it. One of his men: Haldor. A good man. Some, or at least one, of his Rangers had survived.

Haldor called out again, but the guards ignored the shouts. They dropped their prisoner to the ground and began to bind him in place, putting him on display. Haldor fought against his own bonds and shouted in protest. The men around him took up the cry, and they would not be silenced. The guards shouted back to them to be silent, but they did not obey. Not while the soldiers worked to bind the Chieftain, not when they left him kneeling, unable to see or speak, or sit, or stand, or move. Not when the guards crossed the Road and strode straight towards Haldor, singling him out as the main troublemaker.

_Perceptive guards_, Haldor thought. _Should I curse or give thanks?_

He kept up his loud protests, as did the rest: defeated they might be, but not beaten yet.

"Silence!"

They did not listen. Not now. Not when they could show some resistance. Past the legs of the guards, Haldor could see the Chieftain stir.

"Chieftain!" he called. "Chieftain, are you hurt?"

He could not see if he tried to answer; the guards hit him to silence him, but Haldor did not stop calling. And neither did the men around. A not of triumph entered Haldor's voice; the Chieftain lifted his head! Not as close as Halbarad had been, not as close as even his younger brother, Haldor was a Ranger still. He knew his Chieftain. He knew that tilt of the head.

"Chieftain!" he called again. "Aragorn!"

But it was the call of Elessar that won out around him, and Haldor joined it.

"Elessar!" the men called. "Elfstone!" As if by the calling of his name, he might break free. As if by the calling of his name, he might triumph still.

And Haldor called with them, so that by the calling of his name, the Chieftain would stay strong. And feed Haldor's failing strength.

The guards stopped their beatings; they could not silence the prisoners that way. They turned, and walked back. A new note of triumph crept into the call.

Their triumph was cut short.

The shout died upon their lips and dwindled into silence. Haldor strained against his chains, but dared not call again. The Chieftain hung bleeding in his bonds. The blindfold had fallen to the ground, but Haldor did not think he could see; the guards had brought out a whip, and it had cut his face.

_The guards are perceptive._ Haldor cursed.

"Enough talking," the guard warned, and the men understood the threat well enough.

None spoke again.

Aragorn got a glimpse of darkness, and the deeper shadow of one of the Teeth. He blinked against the blood that ran into his eye, and before he could see more they re-bound his eyes. The sound of footsteps told him that the guard moved away. He waited. Unmoving he hung until his shoulders ached with the strain.

"Chieftain?"

It was Haldor again. His voice was low and soft, but by that sound Aragorn knew that the guard was out of sight, or hearing. He lifted his head, and tried to stand up on his knees to ease the strain.

"Chieftain, I…" Haldor's voice was full of unshed tears, heavy and hard in grief. He could not find the words to speak. Aragorn tried to smile around the gag, to offer some small comfort. But there were no comfort in this place, and he shook his head and let it fall again.

He could not see how his men watched over him and never took their eyes off his slumped figure as the night deepened, and the dark around them grew.

…

* * *

**Notes on language:**

_Skai_ - Orcish interjection of contempt

**Endnotes: **I have received help from quite a lot of people in the writing of these books. First and foremost, the people on **The Garden of Ithilien **for help with development, planning and the first drafts, and my beta **JAUL** for final nitpicks. I also want to thank **Mirach** for help with the fight-scene. For some reason I forgot to include her originally, but she was a very big help to me for making that both clear and running smoothly.

Secondly: the support and encouragements from the readers and reviewers of the first part have both cheered me up and inspired me to continue reading. Thank you.

I will follow my pattern of posting for the first book: about one update a month. Should I find myself able to post quicker, I will, but it depends on the time I have for editing and writing new chapters. I am currently somewhere around chapter nine, so writers block should not pose a problem.

**Note for revisions:** a great thanks to the reviewers that have made me take a new look on my writing and the style I've used. While I will not change my writing-style completely, I agree that some more balance was needed, and have gone over to polish up the writing some. Also to fix those mistakes that slipped past my otherwise vigilant beta. Especially thanks to **Isao Fujita** for such a through critique. It made my go back and question my choices, and change where I thought I could improve. I hope the changes did. Also thanks to **Darten** for spotting some hard to see typos. I will also thank **Phalanx** whose review prompted me to take a new look and do some rewriting and cutting. The next two chapters will also be revised.


	3. Do not all Men Share Blood?

**A/N**: This chapter has been revised, but the revisions should not greatly influence the plot. See endnotes for more.

_Disclaimer_: see first chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Two: Do not all Men Share Blood?**

Morning came at last. In the early hours before dawn, when the dew would chill a man to the bone if he had no cloak or blanket, a deeper chill passed high above the Black Gate. Those below felt it, like the shadow of a cloud upon the heart. North and west it flew, and the dawn was dark from it.

But dark though it was, morning still came, with the blaring of horns and the shouting of Orcs and Men; a great part of the army broke camp. They marched out between the Towers of the Teeth and turned north, across Dagorlad and east of the Dead Marshes. Towards Lorien, and Rivendell beyond the mountains.

Aragorn had not slept, but drifted in and out of an uneasy slumber. The trembling ground roused him. The feet of orcs and horses and great _mûmakil_ shook the earth, and they passed by so close to him that he could feel the warmth of the animals, and the movement of the air around the army. The sound was deafening.

The prisoners on the other side of the road could see the gleam of the weapons and the glitter of gold and red on the Haradrim warriors. A cloud of dust rose up into the air, chocking them.

The Rangers sought to get a glimpse of their Chieftain through the dust and the throng of feet. They did not heed the jeers the orcs hurled at them, or the insult from the Easterlings. They strained against the chains that kept them bound, and only ducked to avoid the rotting filth thrown at them.

Hours passed before the last company disappeared beyond the Towers and the dust settled. The prisoners, chained to the ground and to each other, coughed and shook the dust from theirs heads, rubbed it from their eyes. Of the Rangers, Haldor was closest to the road. He brushed the filth away as best he could with chained hands.

"How is the Chieftain?" Belith asked him. The Ranger was close, but a clumsy bandage covered his head, obscuring his sight.

"I cannot say," Haldor answered. "He is covered in dust, like the rest of us, and his head is down, but other than that… I see no wounds, but that means little."

Aragorn stirred. He turned his head from side to side, slowly, as if he tried to see with his ears.

"Chieftain!" Haldor tried to make his call soft, and still be heard, but his voice was rough from dust and lack of water. At the sound Aragorn raised his head.

The words abandoned Haldor, as they had last night. They had never come easily to him, but now they fled, died on his lips and refused to let themselves be uttered. And so Haldor waited in silence while his chieftain cocked his head, birdlike. He saw dried blood on the side of his face. Saw mud and dust and filth staining him. Saw his chest rise and fall. Saw the tremors in his arms and legs from the strain of keeping upright. Saw…

"Haldor? What do you see?"

"He lives." Haldor found his voice and words. "He lives, and he is aware." And there was nothing more to say.

…

They came for him before midday.

Time was slow in the dark behind the blindfold, but his men tried to speak to him when no guards were around, and he held on to their voices. Haldor, the only one he could hear clearly, had counted five Rangers among the captives he could see. He did not mention any of his other companions. If Legolas, Gimli or Pippin were alive, and captured, they were too far for Aragorn to hear, or for them to see him. Aragorn hoped they had escaped with Éomer. He hoped _Éomer_ had escaped. Haldor said nothing of him either.

It was before midday.

Hunger had begun to gnaw, but he had known worse. The thirst was more pressing, and the gag sucked all moisture from his mouth. He could feel dust and dried blood cake on his skin. It itched. There were stiff patches of dried blood on the blindfold and the gag, and they were rough and scratching. A nuisance more than pain, but one he could not escape.

"Guards!"

The warning moved through the lines of prisoners. Silence followed, and the footsteps of the guards close after. They stopped in front of him.

"Fools!"

The guards swore, and Aragorn grunted in pain and bit into the gag when they began to tear at his arms; the nailed-on wood proved hard to take apart. So the soldiers swore, and began to break the wood.

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

His heart beating. An even rhythm, loud and fast, interrupted by sharp, sudden pain and the dull thud of feet against wood. _Thump, thump, thump_, the blood beat and he could not draw enough breath.

Crack!

He heaved for breath, the air knocked from his breast and the _thump, thump, thump_ing of his heart raced. No sound made it through the muffling cloth, but a many-voiced shout cut through his muddled mind: the men cried in protest.

Crack!

Aragorn fell.

The ground was firm underneath him. Solid. Supporting. Holding him up, catching him when he fell. Gravel and sand and dust filled his nose, scraped against his cheek, comforting and hard at the same time. An unmoving place in a world that span and span around him.

The guards pulled the last part free and dragged Aragorn away.

They dragged him back to the healer, who grumbled and sent them to clean their prisoner up.

"Did you drag him face down in the mud since you bring him in all filthy?" the healer complained. There was a silence. Aragorn could hear the guards clear their throats, but they did not speak.

"_Hmpf!_ I thought so," the healer said. "Off with you, now, and bring him back clean and ready for me look at."

Their hands were angry and they muttered under their breath, but they did as told.

He was brought back dripping water. The healer harrumphed and grumbled his displeasure at getting the bedclothes wet. But his hands were soft, removing his blindfold and gag. Aragorn clenched his eyes against the light. His breath hitched, but soon he got it under control.

_Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out._

Gentle fingers on his face, deftly brushing over the skin, carefully feeling around the cuts, cleaning them, turning his face this way and that. The cleaning stung, but he expected that. The healer gave him water. He drank slowly, in small sips; the healer would not let him drink fast.

"Men of Gondor know not the price of water," he muttered. "And from the look of you our own soldiers have forgotten too. Sip slowly: I will have no more spilled on your account."

"Now," he said, taking the water away. "Any new injuries?"

"No." Aragorn's voice was rough. "No other wounds."

"_Hmpf_." The healer bent to listen to his breath. "Your breath is laboured; more than last night."

Aragorn did not answer; the Haradrim captain arrived. Hewas less than silent; loudly he demanded the healer explain himself.

"This prisoner," the healer said, "has been bound like this since last night."

"That was the orders."

"Since you keep bringing him to me, my guess is that the Lord, or his Mouth, has some interest in keeping him whole." The captain did not answer, but the healer took his silence as answer good enough. "Then you will have to disobey one order or another; his breathing is not as good as I would like, and I must see his chest to tell if there is anything to worry about. For that, you will need to unbind his hands, unless you have a knife that can cut through mail."

"There is no need." Aragorn knew at one point they would strip his clothes from him, but he would rather it was later. "I have no broken bones."

The captain slapped him. "You speak when spoken to," he hissed. Aragorn did not answer.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

"He agrees with you," the healer commented. "You should be more grateful, captain." He sighed. "Very well, keep him bound, but you should bring chains. I will see that he is fed and treated, but I want to wrap those wrists before he leaves. The skin is broken, and untreated they may poison the blood. Go ask the Lord's Mouth, if you so wish."

The captain held the healer's eyes, but the healer did not back down. In the end, it was the captain that relented. "Do not untie him before I return," he said, and left.

"Well, well," the healer muttered. "We will have to do the best we can. One of you can go fetch some food," he told the guards. "The other can help me with him. Down on the bed, face up." He patted the bed, and Aragorn was pulled down.

It was much the same as the night before. The healer poked and prodded and found bruises with unerring fingers, but Aragorn kept a better hold of himself this time. His eyes grew more accustomed to the light and after a time he could look around. He caught sight of Imrahil lying in a bed close by.

The prince was pale and his eyes were closed. He did not move.

"Turn him."

Hands turned him over, pulled at his clothes and the healer's hands continued their work, poking and prodding his back.

"Pull up his… yes, that is better."

Aragorn twisted his head to watch Imrahil, focus his thoughts on him. Imrahil was breathing evenly, as if in deep sleep, and Aragorn watched the rising and falling of his chest. A blanket covered him but it had slid down and Aragorn could see the white linen wrapped around his right shoulder. It was fresh and clean, with a thin red stripe already bleeding through.

"Seems you told the truth," the healer interrupted his thoughts. "You have a nasty bruise along the spine, probably bruised the bone around the ribcage, but nothing broken. Must have been some hard blows to bruise through the mail. Yes, you can pull him up now," he added to the guard.

"Go see why your companion is so long gone," he told the guard once Aragorn was sitting. "He will not be able to escape," he added when the guard protested.

The guard grunted in annoyance, and chained Aragorn to the bed before he left to be safe. The healer shooed him away, and stayed silent and watched Aragorn closely until the guard was gone. Aragorn looked past him, his eyes on Imrahil.

"You are one of his men?" the healer asked.

"No," Aragorn replied. "He pledged he was mine, and a friend." He turned to the healer. "Can you tell me of his wounds?"

"So that you can hope that he lives, or that he dies?"

Aragorn found no answer.

"I am but a lowly healer, or so captain Nagid keeps telling me," the healer remarked. "But I know the colours of Dol Amroth and no mere knight would receive the care I have been ordered to give that man. Or you."

Aragorn held his gaze, but he did not speak.

"You puzzle me, Northman. I would have guessed that one that commands a prince, would be more demanding."

Aragorn laughed at that, bitter and without joy.

"What demands could I make?" he asked. "I laid none on Imrahil, or on any man but those that were mine from the North, nor would I until I had in truth been crowned. He held my word for command none the less. And now? I could not enforce the smallest demand, however much I would wish." He coughed, as if his body would support his words.

"My hopes have failed, Master Healer, and my heart is too sore for tears."

The healer nodded. "But not for grief, I guess." He tipped Aragorn's head to the side and began to clean it. When he spoke again, it was in the same, dry voice as he used when speaking of wounds and illnesses.

...

"Chieftain!"

The Chieftain did not even turn his head. Perhaps he had not heard. Haldor strained to see where the guards took Aragorn, but he could not see far. At least it was Men, not Orcs, who dragged him away.

"There is nothing you can do," the man next to him said. His clothes were muddied and torn and Haldor could not make out any device. "Nothing, except, perhaps, to pray they give him a swift death."

"I know," Haldor answered. "And yet I must try, or utterly despair."

"You have lived your life far from the Shadow," the man stated. "You do not know what waits. Now I wish I had turned back to Cair Andros; perhaps my lord would have been slain had I not been here, not wounded and taken alive."

"Your words are dark, and full of riddles," Haldor said. "Who is your lord? The Chieftain's wounds were not grave, that I could see."

"The lord Imrahil. He was struck down, but I was close and we shielded his body until the Elfstone drew the enemy away. His sons fell defending him, but we were overwhelmed, and his body taken. I heard them shout that he lived, and that he should be brought to the healers." He turned to look at Haldor. "You cannot imagine what terror awaits us."

"You are wrong," Haldor replied. "Evil also touches the lands beyond Gondor, and since I was old enough to wield weapons, I have fought against it. And the remnants of Arnor know the hatred of the Enemy, in some parts perhaps even better than does Gondor: with us was preserved the line of Elendil. Now the line will be lost."

"There will be nothing to preserve it for," the man said.

"Have faith."

"In what?"

Haldor had no reply. All his words were hollow; ash in his mouth, dust on his tongue. He looked west, but all he saw was the battlefield, still littered with dead.

"Then have courage." He found the words at length. "Keep courage, when all else is lost."

"Even hope?" The man shook his head. His voice was bitter.

"Aye," Haldor said. "Courage to bear what must be borne. Even that which can't. Courage is left, and cannot be taken, though even hope be lost."

"You speak like one of the Rohirrim. Or like they would, had they the words to speak it."

"The Chieftain always said that they were wise." Haldor smiled, bleak and small but it was a smile. "My father used to add: 'In their own way.' He found it hard to see wisdom beyond the Dúnedain, unless it was among the Elves. And not always there, either."

The other man made a grimace, perhaps it was meant to be a smile. Then it faded. "You do not know," he said again.

"I do know!" Haldor shouted, heedless of the danger. If they had been closer, he would have shaken the man. "You fear for prince Imrahil? There is no Man the Enemy hates more than the heir of Isildur and Elendil. Why do you think _your_ lord had the heralds announce the King Elessar's name? That name kept the Enemy's eye on us. Do not…" he choked on his words.

"Do not tell me what I know or do not about the horrors of the Dark Land." He swallowed and his hands shook.

The man did not answer, and they sat in silence until the guards returned.

…

"My father, a merchant, happened to be in Umbar when the Men of Gondor attacked."

Aragorn could not guess why he told this tale, or if is only was a habit of the healer to speak while tending his patients.

"They still speak with hate about the captain who led the fleet," the healer continued, "but my father once told that he could not have been the monster of the tales. He never saw the captain, but my father always said that you could know a leader by his men.

"During the attack, my father was caught by one of the soldiers. Unarmed, and unused to fighting, my father threw himself at the soldier's feet, and swore by the Great Lord that none of his sons, should he beget any, would ever lift a weapon, if only the soldier would show him mercy and let him live.

"I do not know if the soldier understood my father's words, for he never learned the northern tongue. He told us that he expected to be struck down, or else be made a slave, but the soldier left him, offering no reassurance, and no harm. My father returned home, to find his first-born son mere days old."

He paused and regarded Aragorn. Then he said: "My brother did not honour my father's pledge; he fell at the taking of Osgiliath. But if not for the mercy of the soldier, I would not have been born. And a thought has come to me, that I may repay the debt of my life to you, if you so wish."

"Then tell me of Imrahil's wounds," Aragorn said.

"Do you value my life so cheap?" the healer asked. "I would offer more; for life I would offer death. Both his and yours."

Aragorn was silent.

"With him it would be easy," the healer said. "And even painless. Too much of the herb that eases pain, and none to fight his fever. The captain will berate me, but I do not think I will suffer much punishment; few healers have my skill.

"Your will be harder. A poison in the water, or the food, I think. Painful, but still; you would no longer suffer the shame of defeat."

Aragorn closed his eyes. "You would suffer more than a reprimand," he said. "Sauron wants me for some purpose, or I would already be dead. And he wants me well, or I would not received care for a wound so small. Would you repay your life with your death?" A desperate hope fluttered and died in his voice.

The healer crushed it utterly.

"No," he said. "Perhaps if you had been that soldier, but I like living, and much as my father taught me to honour my debts, he also taught me to heed the Great Lord's will. The tale, then."

He continued to tend Aragorn while he told him of the Prince's wounds. Once, when Aragorn let his impatience for the tale creep into his voice, the healer chuckled: a warm, soft sound.

"I wondered when the demand would come. None of the great men of Gondor would bow to one with no pride." Aragorn mumbled in answer, but the healer took no notice of it. He continued listing Imrahil's wounds: a blow to the head, a cut to the shoulder: that last them most grievous hurt.

"I see," Aragorn said. "Will his arm heal to usefulness again?"

"If given time to heal," the healer answered. "It might. But likely not to full use."

Aragon said nothing, and the healer fell silent as well. He took a cup and lifted it to Aragorn's lips. Crystal water, cool and clean as water from a mountain-stream. Aragorn drank all the healer would give him. When the cup was lowered for the last time, the remaining thirst was gone with it.

"My thanks."

The healer huffed. "The soldiers should be back soon with food; if the Lord in truth want you to live, then starving you would not serve his purpose. But have you any pressing need?"

Aragorn looked at him.

"Have you…" The healer gestured towards a bench where several pots were stacked.

Aragorn looked away.

"I will take care of it," the healer said.

The only mercy was that the guards did not return until he was finished.

…

When the guards returned, they were new, and many, Haradrim and Easterlings mixed. Haldor wondered why there were no orcs. They walked among the prisoners, choosing those that had but small wounds; there were none that had been taken unhurt.

Haldor was among the first they pointed out. He was released and hauled to his feet, made to stand beside the road. Soon a small group had been gathered, and it grew as the guards picked more and more men. Haldor could see that other groups were forming further down the line; more prisoners had been taken than he first had thought. He turned his head back towards the Black Gate. He could see more now that he was standing, but he caught no sign of his Chieftain.

"Hear!" one of the soldiers shouted. "You have marched against the Great Lord without just cause or provocation. You shall therefore serve Him that you may repay this wrong."

None spoke. They stood in mute rebellion, the people of many lands and places, from north and west and south.

"You will obey," the soldier continued. "And your first task begins today." Haldor saw the hand-drawn carts, and knew before they were told, what that task would be.

The field was littered with dead. Sorting through them; a task without end. The Easterlings and Haradrim fallen were taken to be buried after the custom of their people. The orcs were piled to burn, and the rest… the rest they were ordered to dump in the pools and marchlands around the slag-hills where they have made their stand. Few refused the task, and many grieved. The prisoners grew grim as the day grew old.

Haldor saw what they did to those that refused, and he remembered his Chieftain. How he had been brought, and how he had been taken away. And how they had silenced them. And he worked with no protest, sorting through the dead, separating friend from foe. But he closed their eyes the same, and wished them peace in death, as they had not had in life. All but the orcs – them he left, and thanked the Powers that he was not chosen to carry _them_ away.

That day he found one of his fellow Rangers. Seron, who always spoke of his wife; Haldor had never been able to listen to him with patience, and avoided him when he could. Now Seron lay at the foot of the slag-hill, killed in that first, devastating wave when they knew all was lost.

"May the voices of the waters be with you," Haldor mumbled. "May they carry you beyond sorrow, and bring your loved ones to you." He closed the dead eyes and sighed. "Forgive me, that I did not listen to your speech more often." His eyes were dry, as if they had forgotten how to weep.

He laid him across his shoulder and lifted him up. Haldor looked around. He was close enough to the pools to manage the walk; he would not dump Seron in a cart with the rest. No guards stopped him to ask where he was going until he came to the edge of the field.

"Stop!"

He did.

"Where are you going?" the guard asked. "The bodies go over there."

"I lost my way," Haldor answered. He kept his head down, did not look at the Easterling. "It will not happen again."

"It better not," the guard said. "Or you will not live to make it a third. Drop that body and show me your arm."

Haldor laid Seron down carefully. The Easterling grabbed his arm and and pulled him up. Impatient. He pushed up Haldor's sleeve and drew a dagger. "You get two warnings," he said. "No more." And the dagger sliced skin.

It was a shallow cut, for show, and not meant to cause harm. Haldor did not move or flinch. When the guard ordered him to pick up his burden once more, he did. He did not stop to bind his wound, and he did not speak. But he shook. The Easterling did not even reach his chin.

The dead were thrown into the mire. Several carts, each so large that two men were needed to draw them, transported the bodies to the edge of the Marches where a steep hill led down into the wetlands. There they were emptied, the bodies left to tumble down and be swallowed by the pools. A little to the side, a line of people formed. They carried the bodies that lay too close, or so the guards deemed, to waste the carts on them.

Haldor joined the line, and the Easterling left him. At the end, two Haradrim soldiers watched the men: one young, the other older. The prisoners worked in pairs, carrying one man between them, and the younger guard stared at Haldor when he came, carrying his burden alone. The guard opened his mouth to speak, but the older guard laid his hand on the younger's arm and stopped him. The two spoke, but Haldor did not know the tongue.

"Go on," the younger said, and Haldor walked past them, to the edge of the slope, over it and down.

Halfway down he heard the guard shout. Small rocks, shingle and sand moved under his feet, and came tumbling down from above. Haldor was surefooted, more so than the guards, and he reached the bottom of the slope, and the murky pool that lay there, long before they reached him.

He shifted Seron from his shoulders and down to the ground. He knelt there, beside the pool, and knew there was no time, and yet he was unable to let the body go. He heard the footsteps of the guards, closer with each breath, and still he knelt, and held on to the body.

The voice of the younger guard rang behind him. "What do you…?"

It was cut off, and a low mumble followed. Then the sound of retreating feet, and the shingle and sand moving.

"Do not test my patience too far, Northman."

It was the older man. He spoke the Common Tongue haltingly. Broken, but the meaning was clear. Haldor mumbled the words for the dead, and let Seron sink beneath the surface of the pool. He watched the waters close, and fall still.

"Be at peace, kinsman," he whispered.

…

"Bring him!"

The order was short, and the guards were quick to follow it; no soldier would laze about when their captain spoke in such anger. Fed and watered, his wounds cleaned, Aragorn was brought back to the Mouth.

Again he was forced to listen in silence. Again he was forced to meet the other's eyes. Again the Mouth could not hold his gaze long.

That was his only victory — he could glean nothing of use from the Mouth's gloating — but it was a victory of sort. So they bound his eyes and dragged him away.

They did not drag him far. Bare, wooden boards under him, and iron bars around him. A cage, by the feel of it, too small to stretch out or sit fully up, and they left him there still bound.

He could hear footsteps around him; could feel them through the floor of the cage. The boards were rough under him and they scraped against his cheeks whenever he turned his head to listen. He could not hear the other prisoners, only the soldiers moving around. But he had not been allowed to lie down since before the battle, not truly lie down to rest, and despite the nuisance of the hard wood and the irksomeness of all the small things he could not relieve, he fell asleep.

Slowly his body relaxed in his bonds. His breath grew even, and the noises stilled. The darkness behind his eyelids deepened and for a time, he could forget in dreamless sleep.

…

"Show me your arm."

Haldor stood and turned to face the guard. He held out his arm, where the cut was fresh but closing. Or should have. The guard took hold of it, but did not look at the arm. Instead he searched Haldor's face. The set of his jaw. The tears behind his eyes.

"What is 'kinsman'?"

"A relative," Haldor answered. "One that shares your blood."

"Do not all share blood, Northman?" the guard replied. "You mean family?"

"Yes."

"Family," the guard repeated. "I lost my brother in this war. And the son of my uncle's wife." He held on to Haldor's arm a moment longer. "Do not find more family on this field. It is bad luck." He let go of the arm. His fingers were smeared with blood. He rubbed them together, studying the freshness. He looked back up at Haldor.

"Do not share more blood, it may grow too thin."

Haldor nodded. "My thanks."

"Go now. Back to work."

Haldor climbed back up the slope, and continued his task.

It was near the slag-heaps that he found him, buried underneath a great troll. One single foot was all that he could see. One naked, furry foot.

"Ah Chieftain, you will grieve," Haldor muttered. He dug, and heaved, and spent his grief in the task of rolling the troll away. He picked the small body up and carried the Knight of Gondor from the field. Mud and mire clung to his feet, made him stumble, made each step a battle.

"Fear not, little one," he whispered. "Yours were the better fate." And it seemed to him as if the hobbit smiled.

…

* * *

**Notes on names and language:**

I have, to the best of my abilities, used Sindarin for the rangers or the people of Gondor, or found names that Tolkien used. For the Haradrim I have used old Hebrew as a base, but I try to avoid known biblical names, as I do not wish for associations to that.

**Endnotes: **My thanks to all who have reviewed and encouraged me. To the people on **The Garden of Ithilien** for encouragement and first comments, and to **JAUL** for final nitpicks. Any remaining problems have been all my own mistakes.

**Note on revisions: **My thanks to **Phalanx **whose review made me go back to revise the first chapters again. I hope I have been able to speed up the pace somewhat, and at least not repeat too many similar scenes.

I have shortened some scenes considerably, one has been cut and one has been moved. Still, the main plot will not have been affected: cut the scenes to make the story a bit more fast-paced than it was, not because they did not happen. They just did not need to be told in such detail.

I've made some minor revisions to Haldor's interactions with the guards, due to **Madame Girly's** comments. I hope the changes works; they are meant to infuse a bit more emotion in those scenes, but I do not wish too much melodrama either.


	4. Cair Andros

**A/N**: The chapter have been revised, with more consequences than the revisions of the other two. See endnotes for more information. I am sorry for disappointing those of you that are waiting for a new update, but I felt the changes were significant enough to re-post the chapter. New chapter will hopefully be up by the end of the week.

* * *

**Chapter Three: Cair Andros.**

The cleaning of the field took many days. Haldor toiled there from first light until the sun set. He saw the Orcs gathering, and Men as well; a second army that joined those left. But he did not see the Chieftain again, nor did he hear any tidings of him.

On the second day after the battle the wounded prisoners were moved, taken into the Black Land, most of them never to be seen again. They numbered a third of the survivors.

Haldor guessed that his Chieftain had been taken with the others, but Aragorn was not moved. He was kept in the cage, far from the other prisoners. He therefore knew but little of the movements of troops that the others saw. He could hear the marching of orcs and men when they passed by, but he did not know that the Enemy used the days to gather another army to strike against Gondor.

On the third day the army moved.

…

That day and the next the army marched. The Lieutenant of Barad-dûr took his time, confident in his lord's victory, and the army moved slower than it otherwise would. What if Minas Tirith had time to order her defences? No city or strong place could withstand Mordor now, and in the end, there would be no place to hide for those that chose to run.

They entered Ithilien on the second day of the march. The sweet smell of the woods brought some comfort to the prisoners they had brought.

Imrahil woke to the sound of bird-song.

The sun shone on his face. He could feel the warmth on his skin, and the light was red behind his eyelids. Fresh air carried the scent of herbs and green things: the heavy scent of oregano mixed with the fresh, green smell of dew in the grass. The air was still, and cool like in the early morning.

He moved to stretch, and stopped at once. It _hurt_.

There was a hollow feeling at the back of his throat, and it was gritty with sand and dust. Just moving a little strained sore muscle, worst in his stomach and between his shoulder blades. The right side of his neck and his right shoulder twanged with stinging pain and he felt utterly wretched.

He could not distinguish between hunger-pains and the soreness of his stomach. How long since he had last eaten? Surely not long enough for these cramps.

Imrahil opened his eyes. Bars around him. The soft clink of chains, and there; a clang of iron. He remembered.

They had lost.

And now? He was a prisoner, but the air, and birdsong, was wrong. It smelled of Ithilien, not Mordor. He looked beyond the bars, and saw tall elms and evergreens, birches and alders, and silver poplars with white leaves and dark trunks. The sun shone upon the tree-tops.

He tried to move his head. Slowly, inches at a time as to not bring back the pain. The air stirred, and brought with it more smells: smoke and charred meat, and the smell of unwashed bodies and oil and metal. The smells of a marching army.

Imrahil could see them now. Haradrim soldiers camped close to his cage, Easterlings further off, and at the other side of the camp the twisted shapes of orcs. No guards he could see; was the enemy so certain of victory?

A muffled sound behind him made him turn his head. He grunted with the effort, but then he saw his fellow prisoner and closed his eyes for a moment.

"Lord Elessar."

His voice was but a whisper, but the king heard him.

"My lord, are you hurt?"

A shaking of the head. Imrahil could see that he wore a bandage that covered his eyes.

"Are you sure?"

A nod. Imrahil was not sure he believed it, but he was tired and ached. For a time he rested, but something nagged at him. He tried to see if there were any other prisoners.

"Lord, do you know if any others were taken? I can see none close, and no other cages. Did any escape?"

The king made a sound. Imrahil turned towards again him to ask another question, and fell silent. The king could not answer him.

"Forgive me, lord Elessar. My mind is not clear. I remember falling. I remember the confusion and chaos of the battle, and the blowing of horns. I recall the beats of hooves on the ground right before the dark. I have a distant memory of burning pain and a voice calling in a language I did not understand. I have fevered, disjointed glimpses of hands feeding me, and one clear memory of a face, but I do not know to whom it belongs, nor when I saw it. I …

"I think I have been very ill." Imrahil fell silent for a while. The king nodded, but whether it meant forgiveness or just an agreement of his last statement, Imrahil could not guess.

Soon the camp stirred, and the soldiers made ready to march. It was the first time Imrahil was awake when fed. It was a short, brutish affair, humiliating to the point where he wondered if it would be better to go hungry. The king was silent; enduring with a patience Imrahil did not know how to read.

He drifted between sleep and the waking world most of the day. He spoke little, even when awake; the king tensed whenever he spoke, and Imrahil would trail off.

…

The next day, when the army halted for their midday rest, they came for the king.

Imrahil had gained enough strength to sit while a healer treated him, but he could do little else. In the small space they were both jolted by the guards, and Imrahil had not breath to speak with until after the king was gone.

"Where are they taking him?" he asked. "For what purpose?"

"I am but a healer, and not the only one," the healer answered. He carefully unravelled the bandages wrapped around Imrahil's shoulder. "I am rarely called on for the questioning of prisoners. Sometimes, if there is anything left to save or the prisoner has some value, a healer will be called for to undo their harm. But many are just handed to the orcs.

"The orcs have been restless of late. Perhaps the Lieutenant wants to pacify them."

"No." Imrahil shook his head. "Not him. Not the king."

The healer shrugged. "I am but a healer. If that is your king, then he likely has knowledge needed for the battles." And he said no more. His prodding fingers soon drove all else from Imrahil's mind.

…

They brought the king back well before the break ended. Imrahil saw no new marks on him, but the king was tense. And his mouth was free. He said nothing while the guards manhandled him back into the cage. They withdrew, but not far.

"Sire?"

"I am not, and will not now, be king, Imrahil." The king paused, and Imrahil answered before he could speak again.

"I hold you my liege-lord still."

The king shook his head, but said nothing to it. "Are the guards close?" he asked instead.

"Close enough to see, and hear unless we keep our voices low, sire," Imrahil answered.

The king sighed. "I guessed as much." He paused again. "I do not know how long they will let us speak, but I am guessing that it will not be for long: our speech must be quick. Other prisoners there are, but it is my hope that Éomer escaped."

"The horses would bear them swiftly, if they managed to break free," Imrahil said. "And if he was taken, would he not be here?"

"Perhaps, if he could be of use for the Enemy, but it is Gondor they will march against first."

"And what use have they planned for us, since we are here?"

The king turned his head away and said nothing.

"Sire," Imrahil pressed.

"Can you not guess?"

"Faramir will not bow so easily."

"That is my comfort." But the king did not sound comforted.

"Sire, what did they want with you? Did you glean any notion of their plans?"

The king shook his head. "Do not ask," he said. "The Mouth _wants_ me to speak of it. He hopes, perhaps, that you will sway me. Or I you. Why else would he give me speech? Why else have his soldiers spy on his own prisoners?" He let his head fall back and rest against the bars. "No, I will not play his games."

"Sire, what need has the Enemy to play games with us? He has won." Imrahil closed his eyes. Just one brief moment. No time to mourn, yet thick, leaden grief settled over him. Gnawed at his guts – unless it was the soreness speaking – and made even breathing heavy and dead.

"I know."

Imrahil opened his eyes at the reply. He could feel the tension pouring off the king. Suppressed anger – or grief.

"I know full well that he has won, and that he has no need to play games on us. But his Mouth does, and… I will not serve him. Not by any choice that is mine to make. I have failed in my task, but I will not become a pawn of the Enemy. Not that. Never that."

Impotent fury. Imrahil had felt that before. "I will not ask again, sire."

"Aragorn. We are close enough in rank that you could call me by name, Imrahil, and the Mouth does not use that name in mockery."

Imrahil nodded, and forgot that the king could not see his gesture. "Lord Aragorn."

The king smiled.

"Thank you," he said.

The birds were quiet. For a while, the only sounds were the murmur from the army and the whisper of leaves. The soft clink of chains.

Imrahil looked back to the king. His face was set, but he was moving his hands. Or trying to.

"Lord Aragorn?"

"Imrahil," the king acknowledged. "What are the guards doing?"

"Nothing. They watch us, but they have not moved. I do not know if they can hear us." There were more clinks of chains. "Sire?"

"Can you see, or reach, anything that could be of use?"

"Of use to do what, lord?"

"Pick the locks," the king answered. There was a note of impatience in his voice, as if Imrahil should have known.

"I fear that it a skill my father did not see fit for me to learn."

"That is unfortunate," the king answered. "But if you can get me a pin, or…"

"You can pick a lock?" He remembered to keep his voice low, but even so, he could not hide his outrage for the king. What skill was lock picking for a king to have?

But it brought another smile, and a small laughter, to the Lord Aragorn's mouth. "It is a useful skill," he said. "And one my Rangers made sure I had. My father, I am told, was most adept."

"Your _father_ taught you lock picking?"

"No." More clinks. "Arathorn, my sire, died when I was two, and my foster father shared your father's view. But not all in his household did, and the Rangers, when I returned to them, completed my skills. It proved useful many times."

Imrahil closed his eyes. What king…? But he could not deny it was a useful skill right now. If they had had anything with which to pick the locks. And not been surrounded by soldiers. He opened his eyes to see again.

"Aragorn," he said, and the king smiled. "It is no use. Even if we can free ourselves, there is still the cage, and the soldiers."

"Are there always guards?"

"There is no need: the army is all around us."

"No pin?"

Imrahil did not answer, but Aragorn continued as if he guessed the answer. "The shackles are too small to force my hands through. If I could break them, perhaps… but a pin would be better, or a nail from the boards?"

"The boards are secured with wooden pegs," Imrahil answered. "My lord, you cannot mean to…"

"What are our chances to open the cage?"

Something must have happened. The king had been silent since Imrahil had woken — in truth, he had not had much choice — but he had not fought his bonds like he did now. Fey, almost, he seemed.

"Aragorn."

He paused his struggles for a moment.

"You will only cause yourself hurt." Imrahil spoke quickly, before the king began anew. "The armies of Mordor surround us; we will not be able to escape the camp, even if we should be able to escape the cage."

"I have done it before."

Imrahil did not know what to answer to that. "You have been caught and escaped the Enemy before?"

Aragorn shrugged. "Not like this." He began fighting his bonds again, but with less force. "The Enemy did not know that I lived. But I have escaped from enemy camps before. If the cage…"

"Your people did not keep you safe?"

"Imrahil."

He fell silent.

"Is there a chance we can get the cage opened?"

"Will you break your hands to do it?" Imrahil asked back.

"I do not know if I have the leverage," Aragorn answered.

"I have no strength to help," Imrahil said. "I cannot sit without help. And I cannot see anything with which you could pick the lock. And we would be seen, and stopped, long before that."

Aragorn's efforts stilled. "I do not think I can get my hands through the cuffs with no help." He gave one last, angry yank at the chains. "Imrahil, I cannot…"

"What did they want with you, sire? What did they do?"

But the king shook his head. "The Mouth did nothing."

"Then, lord Aragorn, what will he do?"

But Aragorn did not answer, and did not speak again. They sat in silence until the army broke camp, and the king again had no choice but silence.

It is said that the Ringfinder, old Master Bilbo, once commented that days that are good to spend are soon told about, and not much to listen to. But there are days one would not want to live through that still are quickly told, and dull to hear. The days when the army marched to Minas Tirith were like this for Aragorn and Imrahil; long to live, and short to tell. The days were the same, and nothing new happened, but for one exception.

…

"We are near Car Andros," Imrahil said.

It was the evening the thirtieth of March, and though they did not know it, Éomer would reach Minas Tirith the next day. Aragorn tilted his head in answer. "I do not know how much you can sense," Imrahil continued, "but I think they mean to conquer it before they march on Minas Tirith. Whoever leads is certain of victory, and unconcerned with delay."

Aragorn nodded his agreement.

Imrahil closed his eyes. Even that small speech left him weary. But he had to know. "Will they have warning? Did any escape?"

Silence answered, and he waited for it to end. It did not. "Do you know?" he asked. The lord Aragorn gave a muffled sound and Imrahil forced his eyes open to look at him.

Of course.

"Forgive me, lord Aragorn. My mind is clouded, and I forgot."

Aragorn sighed. Fever from the wound, he guessed. Perhaps it would be better for the Prince if the fever took him.

Soon after the cage came to a halt. It was not the halt for the night, too much noise and running and shouting of orders. Before the din ended, they were both taken from the cage. Aragorn could not sense whether they both were brought together, but he needed not understand the soldiers to guess where he was taken.

They made him kneel, again, and held him, again. The gag was taken away; they wanted him to speak. He coughed, and worked his jaw loose, but he did not speak. He tried to hear the people around him, but it was too much noise. A hand took hold of his chin and tilted his head up.

"Hast thou had time to think?" the Mouth asked. "Hast thou considered the benefits that the Great Lord offers thee?"

Aragorn stayed silent.

"It is but a small thing He asks. And thou art his prisoner; it is not fitting that thou dost what he commands?"

"And my ransom is to give him what he will have to fight for, or is that only a part? No. We would not give in to his demand before, and I will not do it now."

"Wilst thou not spare thy own men?" the Mouth asked. "Wilst thou not spare thy vassal, who didst thy bidding before thou claimed his oath? Give the word, would-be king, and I will spare them."

"And what would you have them do, when they have surrendered?" It was easier, now, to sense the people around him. Two soldiers, and the guards; orcs close by – he could smell them – and the Mouth standing so close that he could feel the air move when the other did.

"They would enter the service of the Lord. As will all."

Aragorn was silent. "I will speak to the men," he said at length. "I do not know whether they will obey."

He was lifted to his feet and taken to the walls. There the rag was taken from his eyes and he blinked against the light. Too long in darkness.

"Speak."

Aragorn swallowed. The guards held him tight, and beside him Imrahil was held the same way. But his voice, when he spoke, was clear and without doubt.

"I am Aragorn Elessar," he said. "The Elfstone of Elendil's house. At my word you came here, to hold Car Andros in the last defence of Gondor and of Rohan." He paused, and the Mouth hissed at him to order their surrender.

"We failed. Now keep your oaths; defend this place! Do not surrender, even at the cost of our lives, or yours." He steeled himself, but no blow came.

"You would follow this man?" the Mouth said. "Even when he orders your death?"

The men on the walls were silent, but they did not open the gates, nor did they surrender. Not when the Mouth promised their destruction, nor when he threatened the life of his hostages.

The Mouth turned to his captains. "Tear down the walls," he said. "Slaughter all you find inside. If the orcs want any of the wounded, they can have them, but none of the men are to live when we leave."

Aragorn and Imrahil were dragged away from the walls. The Mouth left with them; his captains and army could take the fort with little effort. Or so all thought.

Imrahil, weak from his wound, was taken back to the cage, but Aragorn was made to kneel in sight of the fort. The Mouth had an open tent pitched there, so that he could watch the battle and plan his tactics. It amused him to have Aragorn kneel there, beside his chair, and force him to see the battle unfold.

The battle did not so much unfold, as it erupted in noise and screams and the clang of weapons. Orcs swarmed the walls and were met with a hail of arrows. But soon the arrows ran out, and orcs and men alike advanced again. High ladders were raised, only to be thrown down by the defenders.

Aragorn watched in grim satisfaction; the men held, and the enemy was thrown back again and again.

"It is a pity," the Mouth said, "that such brave men must die."

Aragorn did not answer. He kept his eyes on the battle. One of the soldiers– an orc if his eyes did not deceive him– reached top parapet, his shape clear against the sky. A spear stabbed him and he toppled back, falling down into the churning mass below. The ladder followed him a moment later.

The Mouth slid his hand under Aragorn's chin, a light pressure to turn his face to his.

Aragorn did not budge. He moved his head away and kept watching. The hand latched on to his hair and the Mouth dragged him close.

"You will see what I tell you to see, and speak when I wish you to," he hissed. Then his voice changed back to that calm, mocking tone Aragorn recognized. "I said: it is a pity that such brave men must die. Didst thou not realise, Elessar, that their surrender would not be to ransom thy life, but theirs?"

"They would have fought, no matter what I had ordered," Aragorn answered. "And they are holding."

"Not for long."

Aragorn caught his eyes and held them. "They will hold longer than you have guessed. They know that every enemy they kill is one less to harass their families. Every moment they keep you here is one moment more for Faramir to escape. They know that if they throw down their weapons, they will be slain.

"No, you, who have given up your name to Sauron, you do not know pity. There is nothing to pity in those men. Theirs is the unsung honour, more worthy than any title your master bestows."

The Mouth flinched from his gaze. His fist tightened in Aragorn's hair, and then he let go of it. Aragorn fell. He hit his head, but the earth was soft there, with only pebbles and grass and sand. No roots, no rocks. He rolled to his side. The fort was more difficult to see, but he watched what he could.

The Mouth ignored him.

The battle continued into the night. The nigh-eyes of the orcs kept them fighting, with few lulls in the battle. Aragorn could hear the battle-noise, but when the sun set he could no longer see the fight. Scattered fires, or torches – he could not say which – showed where the battlements were. The Mouth withdrew – he had not tried to make Aragorn speak again – and still Aragorn was left there, lying on the ground.

He closed his eyes during one of the few lulls. Sleep was close, but before he could drift off, he was hoisted up unto his knees. The guards had not left, and they made him kneel the rest of the night.

In the morning the fort still stood.

The Mouth swore at his captains and ordered the siege-weapons to be rolled up, and for the archers to send volleys of arrows over the walls while the weapons were prepared.

"My lord," one of the orc-captains said. "Their shields are strong; we will only give them new arrows. Now they have none left."

"And still they repel you. Do as I say. And send the vanguard to take the road through Osgiliath. They are not to attack Minas Tirith until the main army arrives, but they are to prevent any attempt to escape."

The captains left to give the new orders. Soon horns and trumpets rang to call the soldiers back. A short respite for the men inside. Aragorn watched as the archers lined up, and a battering ram was brought from the camp. It was not half as huge as the one that had shattered the gates of Minas Tirith, but still it was heavy. With enough force, it would bring down the walls. If they could ford the river with it.

The archers sent their arrows flying over the walls. Two full volleys, then they broke to let the ram through.

White water whipped around the wading orcs. They hauled and heaved at the ram; the crossing was slow, and it looked to Aragorn as if the riverbed tugged at its wheels, slowing it further. Halfway across, the arrows returned to harrow the orcs. Less dense than before, the arrows still hit their targets. The orcs halted, and then they were forced to withdraw– or fall.

"It will be too late."

The Mouth turned to Aragorn. "I did not command thee to speak."

"You wish me to," Aragorn answered. "Or you would have gagged me."

He kept his eyes on the battle, deliberately not looking away. The archers drew and sent a new rain of arrows towards the fort. Under its cover the orcs waded back into the water, and with them walked tall men from the south carrying shields. In the water the shield-wall could not close completely, but the archers did not let up to let the defenders gather arrows to shot back. The ram reached the island where the walls of the fort rose up from the water's edge.

"Speak."

Aragorn continued to watch. The archers stopped shooting once the battering ram and its wielders were in place; the shield-wall around and powerful hill-trolls that swung it with the force of many men.

The Mouth moved in the corner of his eye, and Aragorn tensed. Nothing. Nothing happened.

The men on the walls threw down rocks and broken stones on the attackers, but their shields held, and the ram battered against the stone.

Thump. Thump.

"The walls will break…"

Thump. Thump.

"…and my men will flood the fort…"

Thump. Thump.

"…and they will tear it apart…"

Thump. Thump.

"…and kill all inside."

Thump.

"It will still be too late; you waited too long. Warning will already have reached Minas Tirith, even your vanguard will not reach it in time to hinder flight. Faramir…"

"Will have no warning before the Great Lord shows his might. There is none to warn him."

"Some will have escaped."

"Whom will that be?"

"Éomer king…"

"Lies dead, his horse shot from under him."

"Imrahil's sons…"

"Fell protecting their father."

"One of his knights…"

"Captured or killed; they refused to abandon him."

"One of my men…"

"Would not leave their precious heirling."

"The eagles…"

"Shot down. The orcs feasted on their wings."

Thump. Thump.

Up on the walls the men sat fire to great vats, and poured the burning waste down on those below. It caught the orcs close to the wall, the men and their shields, clinging to their skin. They rolled in the river where they were trampled and drowned. The last drops oozed down the walls and clung, oil-like, to the stone in burning flames. But the ram battered on, burning at the point. Thump, thump, it knocked against the wall.

"And now thy men weaken their walls with fire and filth. Conquered by their own defiance, even as we speak."

Aragorn turned to stare at his enemy. The Mouth of Sauron smiled.

…

…

…

* * *

**Notes on names:**

Rafa' – the old Haradric healer. His name is taken from the Old Hebrew word for healer, though I have not used the usual English transcription of the Hebrew letters. The apostrophe is used for the letter ayin, which is an unvoiced glottis-stop, a kind of swallowing sound.

**Notes of canon:**

A lot of the happenings in this chapter are conjure based on this episode from LotR:

"So desolate were those places and so deep the horror that lay on them that some of the host were unmanned, and they could neither walk nor ride further north.

Aragorn looked at them, and there was pity in his eyes rather than wrath; for these were young men from Rohan, from Westfold far away, or husbandmen from Lossarnach, and to them Mordor had been from childhood a name of evil, and yet unreal, a legend that had no part in their simple life; and now they walked like men in a hideous dream made true, and they understood not this war nor why fate should lead them to such a pass.

'Go!' said Aragorn. 'But keep what honour you may, and do not run! And there is a task which you may attempt and so be not wholly shamed. Take your way south-west till you come to Cair Andros, and if that is still held by enemies, as I think, then re-take it, if you can; and hold it to the last in defence of Gondor and Rohan!'

Then some being shamed by his mercy overcame their fear and went on, and the others took new hope, hearing of a manful deed within their measure that they could turn to, and they departed." (RotK, The Black Gate Opens)

The Tale of Years (LotR, App B), states that an army from the Morannon took Cair Andros on the Dawnless Day (March 10th). We do not hear about how it went for the men that were sent to re-take it, but Cair Andros is mentioned several times later, and clearly in the hands of the Men of Gondor so it is likely that they succeeded. That is, at least, the interpretation I have followed here.

"_days that are good to spend are soon told about, and not much to listen to." _Taken from _The Hobbit, A Short Rest._

**A/N**: I want to thank the usual suspects for the help with this chapter: the people on the **Garden of Ithilien**and **JAUL**. I also want to thank all of you who have reviewed: it is very encouraging to hear from my readers and I am sorry that I have not been able to thank those of you that have reviewed anonymously. I do so here. And also all who has read, followed and favourited this story.

**Note on revision:** I have both cut a scene and added a new one to this chapter. While the cut scene, like other cuts, have been not because they did not happen, but because I found there was no need real need to tell them, the added scene does chance a bit more in the plot, at least when it comes to the character-development of Aragorn. **Lia** commented on this in the drafts, but I did not realise how right she was before: Aragorn was too docile in my first envision of this, and while he has not had much change to show resistance, or fight back, it still did not quite fit his character. Working on this chapter again made me see that I had missed part of the action here, and the new scene is due to my late realisation.

I want to thank **Phalanx** for making me take that new look of the first chapters, and I hope the revisions have resulted in a better told story, even if the pace will never be very fast, I fear.

A few typo's fixed, thanks to **Madame Girly.**


	5. Into Darkness

**Notes and warnings:** See end of chapter. Last chapter have edits (since its first posting, but not after Sunday 16th) that have some bearing on the plot.

_Disclaimer:_ see first chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Four: Into Darkness**

From the account given by Erinç son of Igar, who led the archers:

"_The fort fell in the evening, far later than we had expected. This was in great part due to the orcs' inability to scale the walls; time and again they withdrew because the resistance was so great that their lives were in danger. My company was called in at the beginning of the fight, but after the enemy had exhausted their supply of arrows, we were dismissed so as not to replenish them. We were able to sleep for most of the night, and were not called upon until the morning._

"_We were recalled to duty the next morning to provide cover for the battling ram. We kept up a steady rain of arrows until the ram was in place and the shield-carriers had formed a wall and roof._

"_The enemy tried to break through the shields with arrows and rocks, but the roof held. They then showed their cruelty by pouring hot and burning filth down, forcing the orcs and some of the shield-carriers to retreat. This did not stop the ram, which the Hill-trolls swung until the walls gave in, weakened by fire and the constant hammering._

"_The wall was breached an hour before sunset. Both the orcs and the fighters on foot then took the fort and slaughtered the enemy in revenge for our losses. The fort was levelled to the ground, and the few wounded enemies that still lived were given into the hands of the orcs. They died within the hour._

_My men were pleased by that, for the screams had been most disturbing._

_The orcs grumbled about the useless _tarks_ whose flesh was spoiled. The commanders had little patience with this, since it was the orcs own actions that had caused this. It took a few whippings to make them fall back in line._

_We crossed the river before midnight, but it was morning before the whole army reached the western shore. The wagons took a little longer since the riverbed between the east side and the island was muddy after the fighting. The cage containing the prisoners and one of the food-wagons were stuck in the mud midway through. The cage was at length pulled free, but the wagon was lost and the food destroyed by the water._

_A few hours after midday, we left the ruined fort behind. All troops were ordered to march, and we did not leave any behind to secure the crossing. I looked back once, and saw the carrion-birds stooped down on the island. The air was black with them."_

…

This account is one of the few that has survived, and the one that is closest to the king's own account. The king never spoke about the fate of the men that held the fort.

The army reached Minas Tirith on the evening after six days of travelling. The darkness had overtaken them on the second day, and now it spread out before them. The vanguard stood outside the broken Gates, waiting. Slowly the main army took their places until it was positioned. The Mouth ordered fires lit and that the tropes rested, and did not attack.

The fires burned the whole night.

…

The cage with the prisoners stood at the back of the lines, left there when the army arrived, and nothing more was done with it. No food or water given, no healer came. Aragorn and Imrahil passed the night in silence. Aragorn was given no choice, and though Imrahil had grown better during the travel, he was still weak from his wound.

The darkness lasted throughout the whole battle. The prisoners could hear when the attack began, and Imrahil could see fires, but the walls were too far away. The swishing of arrows and the cries of the wounded were all that could be heard for a long time. Then the clang of metal rang across the fields, distant and muddled in Aragorn's ears.

"The fight must have reached the gates," Imrahil said. "I do not know how many men are left, but they must have run out of arrows. It is too dark to see if any banners are flying from the Citadel. I cannot guess at who is leading the defence."

Aragorn nodded. He strained to discern the progress of the fight, but a long time passed where he could hear no difference in the muted cries and the beating of metal.

"The light near the gates grows fewer," Imrahil said. "And I can see fires spread on the first level."

_They have taken the Gate._ Aragorn tried to speak around the gag, but it was of no use. A fortnight, and he still had not learned, but still tried.

…

The sounds from the battle waxed and waned. Imrahil would guess at the enemy's progress through the City by tracing the lights, but little could be known for certain, other than the enemy slowly fought their way up through the circles of the city. Darkness covered the land, and even Imrahil could not tell how long the battle had lasted.

Once during that time they were given water, but Aragorn guessed, and indeed he guessed right, that the battle lasted more than a day.

Thirst and hunger plagued them, and Aragorn found it difficult to stay awake. The battle-sounds grew distant and even Imrahil's words were hard to hear. He fell in and out of sleep, though it was fitful and gave little rest. Now he wished they had stripped him of his mail; the padded collar that protected his neck had been cut away and a broken ring on his hauberk rubbed against the skin, so that it was raw and bleeding. Every movement tore more of the skin.

A muffled groan had Aragorn turn his head, and the ring racked across raw flesh.

"I cannot see the fighting," Imrahil said. His voice was strained and he paused, breathing loud. "I do not think the Citadel is overrun, but…"

_The gates have fallen, one by one._ Aragorn finished in his thoughts. _The last gate may be the hardest, but they cannot hold long with the rest of the City taken. They will starve, unless they escape through hidden doors; if any path out is left._ He shifted, and the ring scraped. It should have been no more than an annoyance, at this place and at this time, but it was not.

_Why did he_ _not bring us,_ he wondered. _Did Cair Andros discourage him from trying to use us again?_ But that made little sense, for why then take them this far?

"Soldiers," Imrahil warned. "They are many, and come this way, bringing torches. Men from the south and east, but I see no Orcs."

Aragorn could hear them barking orders to their guards, and he was not surprised when metal rang and chains rattled, and they were dragged outside.

The ground was soft under his knees. Damp, and muddy. Hands tugged on the blindfold and he winced; the movement rubbed the mail against his neck, again.

"Pretty them up," one of the soldiers grumbled. "As if we have not better use."

"Do as you are told!" The voice was stern. "The Lieutenant want them to be recognised — especially the king."

"Why would they not recognise their king?"

"He has not been for long. They have been ruled by stewards for as long as can be remembered; no words about any king until a few weeks ago, before he tried to attack the Gate."

"Can't be a very smart king, to try that."

The soldier was cut off. Aragorn could hear a yelp, and felt the man rocking beside him.

"You are not here to think, or talk; obedience is all that is asked of you."

"Yes, captain."

"Good." A hand grabbed his hair and turned his face, first one way, then another.

They talked about him as if he was not there. As if it did not matter whether he heard or not. Aragorn tried to wrench his head away, but he was held in place.

"This one needs a thorough wash: see to it."

Aragorn tensed. He remembered his last wash. But he could do little, though the blindfold and the gag was taken away. He caught a glimpse of torchlight, blinding after days of black, before hands gripped his shoulders and his neck and forced his head into water.

He held his breath. The water was fresh and cool; he would have called it soothing at any other time. Now he tried to stay still, tried to use this chance to slake his thirst, but they held him until his body fought to breathe, until it would no longer hold still; until his struggles grew weak. Then they pulled his head up again and he coughed and gasped for breath.

They rubbed soap into his hair, into his skin, into his eyes. It stung in the cracked corners of his mouth. The taste made him spit, and his eyes watered from the soap. They pushed him back into the water. Held him there.

_Give up,_ a voice whispered in his mind. _Thwart whatever purpose he has for you._ But his body would not. It fought, and fought, and fought again. Water ran down his face, down his neck. He spluttered and coughed when he finally was let up. One of the soldiers cursed and they let go of him. He curled up, gulping up water he could ill afford to lose.

When the heaving stopped, they pulled him up again and threw the rest of the water in his face.

And that was easier.

Rough cloth dried him, rubbed against scabs and sore skin. Then he had a brief respite. He could see that Imrahil was wet too, and they dried him off with scarce more care. But there was little he could do, and Aragorn turned his eyes away.

The dim torchlight no longer blinded him, and he could see more of the camp. Around them were the wagons, row upon row, but most of them empty. Too few for a long siege. If the defenders destroyed the granaries, withdrew with nothing left for the enemy to scourge… The people left behind would starve, but so would the enemy. He tried to look for fires, but he could not see that part of the City.

"My knife is sharp."

The words brought him back to his own plight.

"Whatever for?"

The soldier who had dried his face stood up, and Aragorn could see the soldier and his knife.

"To shave 'em," the first answered. "The Northmen go barefaced."

"No need."

Aragorn strained against the hands that held him and gritted his teeth when a thumb stroked his cheek.

"Smooth as a boy. Or a woman." The soldier leered. "Who's been shaving you?"

Aragorn glared at him, but did not answer. Just locked his eyes with the other's, and held him. He could hear the other guard say that they could not have been shaved in many days; the layer of dust and grime were days thick.

The soldier's eyes wavered under his, but his grin widened. "Are you no man, then?" he asked. He let go of Aragorn's hair, and grabbed him.

Aragorn made no sound; he could not trust what he would say. Distantly he heard Imrahil protest, one of the guards hit him in the side but he barely felt it. He could not say if he would have felt it had he not retained his mail, so intent was he on the man before him, and the hand holding him.

Imrahil fell silent.

But the man leaned closer, leering, and Aragorn held until his face was close enough.

The soldier fell back screaming. He clutched his nose, and it was Aragorn who smiled. Danger he promised in that smile, and danger laced his words:

"Let lose my bonds, and you will learn that I am more than man."

Anger had driven any fear he should have felt away, but he could see fear and anger warring in the other. And whether fear or anger won when the man — egged on by the soldiers standing round — rose and strode closer, Aragorn did not know.

The men holding him let go, and he toppled into the mud. Imrahil was calling again, but Aragorn had only contempt left for the stupidity of the man: his boots were soft, and Aragorn was still in his mail.

"Hold!"

It was Nagid, the captain from Harad. "Corporal," he said. "What has happened here?"

The soldier stepped away. Aragorn shifted his head so he could see. The corporal limped slightly and shrank under the captain's glare. He began to stammer excuses, until Captain Nagid stopped him. Two men hurried to drag Aragorn up and to his knees, and the captain came closer. Aragorn said nothing, and the captain did not ask him to speak. He studied his face: the fresh mud, and a sprinkle of blood on his forehead. He turned back to look at the corporal's bloodied nose.

"Clean him up again," Nagid ordered. "And you, Corporal, will present yourself for punishment in the morning." The corporal began to voice his defence, but the captain would not hear it. "Be grateful that your mistake will not thwart the Great Lord's plans," he said. "Or your punishment would have been death. But the steward will know his king, whether you have damaged his face or not. The Lord's Mouth has seen to it."

And from his jacket, he took out the Elessar, the Elfstone, and hung it around Aragorn's neck. Aragorn bit into the gag and strained against his guards; Faramir had not escaped then. Had the Mouth told the truth?

The rush of water chased the question from his mind, if only for a time.

After, they fitted the gag in place. The captain stood there, watching him. Aragorn met his eyes, but the captain did not hold his gaze. But he leaned down and felt the small swelling under the unbroken skin on Aragorn's forehead.

"You are prideful still," he said. "The Great Lord shows mercy on the deserving, and He understands pride; but those that in their pride will stand against Him, will fall to ruin. You will witness this, and know the truth of my words."

Aragorn shook his head. The captain said no more, and straightened.

"Bring them," the he ordered.

Aragorn felt a tug around his ankles. The shackles fell away and he was hauled to his feet.

"Walk."

But they had not allowed him to walk since his capture. His knees buckled under him, he stumbled. His guards swore and tugged him forward, towards the City. He slipped and stumbled and struggled to get his feet under him. They had not allowed him to walk on his own since his capture, but now… now his feet were no longer shackled tight and he could see. Now, for the first time since his capture, he had a choice – small though it was.

It became easier to walk, and he began to struggle against the guards instead. He strained against them, fought them step by step. They hauled him forward, but it was slow work, and hard. Grunts and curses rang down on him.

The corporal came closer. Aragorn saw him out of the corner of his eye: he carried a whip.

Before the corporal came close, Aragorn went limp. His guards were unprepared; they lost their grip and he let himself fall to the ground. He rolled. He struck with his feet and brought down one. He swiped another of his feet, and rolled again. Found his own feet and staggered backwards. Kept his balance.

The whip whistled and he ducked away. He retreated, step by step, backing away from the whip.

But they were many, and his hands were bound. Another whip cracked, and wrapped around his legs. He fell, and they grabbed him again, held him down.

"Bag."

And his sight was taken. The bag was thick and smelled of earth and carrots. It was tied in place, and he was hauled to his feet.

"That," the captain's voice said, "was foolish. Did you think you would be able to escape?"

Aragorn stood between his guards and did not move to answer. He knew there was little he could do, but he would not meekly let himself be led. He continued to struggle, and they pulled him forwards; he had to walk or lose his footing. He did not wish to be dragged helpless.

So he stumbled between the soldiers, slipped on the muddy ground and staggered to his feet again. And they forced him towards the City. He could feel the stone under his feet when they reached the Road, heard the echo when they passed the Gate. Up the levels of the City he struggled both to keep his feet, and against the guards.

He did not hear screams of wounded, nor the clash of steel, and he wondered if the City was already taken. Sweat stung in his eyes, and breathing became difficult, and still they forced him upwards.

Then they stopped, and the silence of many men surrounded him. Aragorn could sense the army around him, silent. Waiting. Ahead a man spoke and another answered. Aragorn was tugged forward, and the silence erupted into jeers and shouts.

He was jerked to a halt and forced to kneel. He would have fallen forwards, but the guards held on to his arms, held him upright on his knees. The bag was ripped away and he blinked. Torchlight blinded him, hands yanked his head back, and he heard the Mouth laugh.

Then he heard a shout of dismay from the walls.

Faramir had not left. Aragorn knew his voice. He squinted against the light, and saw him on the wall.

The Mouth looked at Aragorn, but Aragorn ignored him. Head wrenched up and held fast, he could not move it, but even so he kept his eyes on the walls. On Faramir. His body was tense, as if he was only waiting for some sign to break free from his bonds. Mute. Unbending.

Beside him Prince Imrahil hung slumped between his guards, pale and silent. If he still fought his captors, it could not be seen; he was too worn by injury and the road to offer any defiance. The Mouth turned from his hostages and back to the wall.

"The Great Lord is merciful, but impatient," he called. "Surrender, and learn his lenience. Surrender, and Gondor will not suffer. Wait until we tear your walls down stone by stone," he took hold of Aragorn and dragged him closer, "and Gondor will pay double for every wound suffered by our soldiers."

Aragorn trembled under his hand and the Mouth smiled to feel it.

"Shall I order my men forward again, steward? Will you care so little for that which has been given in your care? For the life of your liege and your kinsman? For the life of your men and your people?"

"Name your demands."

The smile widened, and the Mouth loosened his grip on Aragorn. The soldier tightened his instead, and the Mouth trailed his fingers down Aragorn's cheek, a mockery of a caress.

"Surrender, and your life, the life of your men, the life of your uncle; and the life of your king will be spared. The land east of Anduin will belong to the Great Lord, and Gondor will be taken in under the protection of Mordor; a tributary with leave to govern itself– within certain limits."

Faramir did not answer at once. There was a movement in the darkness upon the walls; a man appeared beside the Steward, they conferred, and the man withdrew into the dark. A little later a standard was thrown down from the walls. White with no mark on it.

Aragorn closed his eyes and slumped in the grip of his guard. He barely heard Faramir's words, the rush of blood and his own breath too loud in his ears. Loud and harsh. The army cheered and shouted and he could feel the Mouth lean close, his breath hot on his face, and heard him say:

"Now thou seest, Elessar; thou hast served, and thou wilt serve, as the Great Lord wills."

The Mouth straightened and Aragorn was left there, kneeling in the grip of the guards. Shouts and calls swirled around him, and he was hoisted to his feet. He was dragged, stumbling forwards, a short space.

"He is unharmed, as you can see."

He met Faramir's eyes. The Steward was pale, ragged from the battle. _Do not surrender for my sake!_ But Faramir could not hear him; he was not allowed to speak.

"My lord," Faramir said, but Aragorn shook his head. The Mouth barked an order, and a blindfold was bound around his head, pressing on his eyes.

They dragged him away. Down through the City, how far he could not tell, nor could he tell whether Imrahil was brought with him, but at the end he was taken inside a building, down through narrow stairs, into some room. There they pushed him to the floor, unbound his arms and stripped him of his mail and boots. They clapped iron round his ankles, and left him, still gagged and blindfolded, on the cold floor.

…

His arms throbbed, and his fingers were stiff and clumsy; it took more time than it should to untie both the blindfold and the gag.

The cell was dark. No light; if there were any cracks in the door that could have let it in, Aragorn could not see them. Perhaps there were none. Perhaps there was no light outside the door. He crept forward, and found the wall.

He had cried behind the blindfold and the gag, that first night, if night it was, when they left him bound upon his knees. He had wept for those that had died, and those that lived. For their failure and for their loss. For the hobbits' unknown fate, and for the fate he knew too well awaited them all; the only outwards sign the wetting of the cloth around his eyes.

Now he clutched his throbbing arms to his chest and curled against the wall. Rocking with the pain, he cried again. In the darkness of the windowless cell he wept for Gondor and its people. He wept for the City that was lost. For the Steward and for the deadness in his voice. And he wept with the pain of the role he had been made to play. The role he would be made to play again.

The walls around him were silent and cold. He wept for a long time, until, at last, his tears ran dry, and weary, he fell into dreamless sleep.

He woke shivering with cold. His body was stiff and sore and he moved slowly and with care. He stretched; he bent his knees and placed the unclad soles of his feet on the floor. His legs weak from long disuse, he still pushed himself up and clambered to his feet.

The wall supported him, he held on until he was sure he would not fall. Then Aragorn pushed away. Chains rattled; the shackles were too tight for him to walk with ease, but walk he could.

The chains did not let him fully reach the door; the cell was long but narrow — even with his short range Aragorn could reach the corners of the wall he was chained to. And it was empty. No straw or even a bucket.

Aragorn sat down in one of the corners, even that little movement had left him tired. His body was heavy and weak. He did not know whether it was day or night, nor did he know how long he had slept, but he guessed that it had been several hours.

No food or water.

No food since the last halt before they reached Minas Tirith. No water for almost as long.

His lips were dry and cracked, and the gag had cut the corner of his mouth. The cut above his eye had closed, but it had not healed. Aragorn prodded carefully around the scab. The skin was hot and tender.

"It would indeed be a deep fall," he mumbled. "To die of an infected whip-wound, though thirst seems more likely."

He searched his body for other hurts, but his mail had protected him well. A welt wound around his calves – a whip-mark by the feel of it – but apart from those bruises, and raw-rubbed flesh on his wrists and neck, were all the wounds he had. What the Mouth had said was true enough: he was mostly unharmed.

And the Enemy did not wish him dead.

…

Aragorn did not know how long he sat in the darkness. He drowsed, and woke at the sound of feet.

A small sliver of light pierced the dark one moment before the door opened, and the light blinded him. Loud noise accompanied the light, and Aragorn raised his arms to shield his eyes and ears. Hands closed around his wrists, and he was too weak from thirst and hunger to resist. But he tried.

"Do not," a voice said. It was the healer that had treated Imrahil during the march. "Or will you rather be chained to the wall while I treat you?"

Aragorn shook his head. His mouth was too dry to speak, but he peered against the light and let his arms fall when the healer let go of them.

His hands were cool and light. Aragorn closed his eyes while the healer checked him, and found nothing Aragorn did not already know. He prodded the cut above the eye.

"This should be lanced," he said. "There is corruption under the skin; the wound has closed too soon."

Aragorn lost the words that followed between the healer and the soldier, to tired to think clearly until the healer turned back to him. Touched his brow, moved on to pull open one eye. The crust of dried tears crumbled under his fingers and Aragorn drew back. The healer said nothing, and moved on to check the cuts around his mouth.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

Aragorn relaxed a little when the hands disappeared.

"Open your eyes," the healer instructed.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

Aragorn opened his eyes. The light seemed less harsh and he looked at the healer. He was holding up one hand, one finger, in front of his face.

"Follow the movement."

He did.

"Good," the healer said. "Rest a moment; food and water are comming."

Aragorn nodded, but he did not close his eyes again.

His cell was small, with stone walls, earthen floor, and no windows. From one corner to the next it was just a few feet long, but between the back wall and the door it was more than twice that length. The chain binding him in place was set in the earth floor, and the door, he saw, was not the thick, heavy door of a dungeon: they had put him in a larder.

Why not a cell? Minas Tirith had dungeons and jails; a larder could hardly be as secure. With some work, Aragorn thought he would be able to pull loose the chain, and he could see no lock on the door.

And then?

Sneak away and escape, and leave Gondor to her fate? The Mouth had already used him against Faramir once, and he did not wish to learn more of what the Enemy had in store for him.

Flee, or fight to death– or to his recapture?

The latter was more likely. More likely than any escape, whether through death or not. Aragorn closed his eyes.

Surrender?

He did not know if he could bear it. Had the Mouth placed him here, in this larder, to taunt him with the hope of escape, only to take it away? It was a well-chosen torment.

At that moment a guard came with food. The healer made him sip the water slowly. Asked him of pains, felt the heat of his brow, and asked if he felt hot. Aragorn felt cold, for the larder had been made to keep food and he had no blankets, or boots, nor had they let him keep the padded tunic he had borne under the mail.

"A low fever, then," the healer muttered.

He left shortly after and the guards went with him. They left a bucket for his needs, and water and food by his side.

"Eat," the healer said. "Or we will have to feed you."

Aragorn gave no response, the threat was clear: eat, or be force-fed.

They took the light with them when they left.

…

Darkness. Darkness and shadow surrounded him. He did not know day from night, could not judge how fast the hours dripped by. Not since Moria had he known such darkness, the darkness of the deep earth where no stars shone. But even there, in the deep mines, there had been light, and space, and time. The staff of Gandalf leading them through the night; great halls and caves where their footsteps would resound; and in the morning high shafts had let in the sun.

Here was the dumb darkness of raw earth and small rooms. The man-made dark of bolted doors to trap the darkness and shut out light, and air. And life.

He tried to put such thoughts out of his mind: this cell was no tomb, but a larder; made to preserve food. Not corpses.

Sometimes he wondered if he would not prefer the tomb.

He tried to keep some count of the time by marking when the guards brought food, but he had nothing with which to scratch a mark. The walls were stone; too hard to mark without a knife, or iron nail. The marks he scratched into the floor too often distorted and destroyed by the guards, or his own, feet. He lost the count – and guessed that it would have been of little use. The guards' visits were random; at times too close to be even a day apart, at others far too long. Then he would sleep and wake and sleep again, and none would come. Not until his lips were parched and cracked and he did not feel the hunger-pains above the thirst.

No. That only happened once. Aragorn remembered that one time.

When the guards left with the water-bucket and the trays, he would dig around the bolt driven deeply into the earthen floor that held him chained in place. So he did this time too, always listening to hear if they returned.

They did not.

He did not know how long he dug. Hours? Days? He slept, and woke and dug again. The longer the guards stayed away, the better his chance to break free. _Do not come_, he found himself wishing. _Do not come_.

They did not.

He had only his bare hands, and the floor was hard. He scraped his fingers, his nails broke and he bled, but he dug and dug. He tried to use the links of the chain to help ease his digging, but the bolt did not budge. The digging became harder and harder, more tiresome, but he kept digging when he did not rest. _Do not come; not yet._

They did not.

His mouth grew dry. His fingers weak. Every grain of sand, every speck of dirt he could feel against his fingertips; every hurt. But his body grew dull and numb, and he could not think. _When will they come?_

They did not, and that was all he knew.

The guards had found him more dead than alive. He could hear them, but he was too dry to speak. The light blinded him but he had little strength to move away. Loud voices, shouting, and he closed his eyes.

_Do not come! I almost found a way._

The healer came, speaking angry words in the Haradrim tongue. Aragorn could not follow it; it was too harsh, too fast. Too loud. The Haradrim soldiers blamed the corsair guards; they denied it, quarrelling above him as if he was not there. As if it did not matter what he heard.

And he remembered his body betraying him, desperate for the water even when his mind screamed at him to refuse it. Better to be dead, if the Enemy wanted him to live.

His body won that fight before it had began, gulping the water down as quickly as the healer would allow.

And then they left, and the darkness returned. He sat alone, shaken that he had not fought harder. Grey shapes danced around him, the echo of the blinding light. He waited for the images to fade, for the darkness to abate when his eyes had grown accustomed to the dark once more.

It never happened. No night-vision was strong enough to pierce the dark. Time and time again he waited, but the dark stayed the same inky black. It did not get better; the darkness was too complete.

He tugged at his chain. It did not budge. The bolt was driven deeper into the dirt, and he had lost whatever progress he had gained.

Why had he not fought harder?

_You always fought to live before. Not to die._

I did not know despair. However weary, there were always joy and light. Now darkness swallows all.

_You do not know that._

Yes, I do. The hobbits are lost, the Ring regained and Sauron won.

_And you would flee from him. Cowardly escape and leave. Let others fight in your stead?_

He wishes me to live; why should I not deny him? No other power is left me than to deny him this. If even that power is left. Should I surrender and not fight at all?

He sat in silence in the darkness. Moments passed; a whole Age of the world. From the depths of his heart the answer came, grim and small and bleak:

_If you are dead, you cannot fight again._

And so he lived.

…

* * *

**Warning:** for torture, though not graphic. This warning – or for violence – will be relevant for much of the story, though the intensity and/or details of description will vary. The background theme of the possibility of abuse will be there in most chapters: I am telling about prisoners of war, in a time and place where the Geneva convention has not even been thought of.

I do, however, not intend to go beyond the T-rating. Should you at any point think I are getting too close to the line for M-rating, please tell me. I will most likely edit the more graphical material out, unless I feel it is needed, in which case I will change the rating. But I think it should be possible to tell the story effectively without too graphic descriptions.

**Notes on names:**

Erinç son of Igar - (Old Turcik) An Easterling. **Morthoron** gave me the advice and the link to find resources. The names are taken from the Orkhon inscriptions found in Mongolia.

**Endnotes:** My writing-group, **The Garden of Ithilien**, and my beta **JAUL,** as always deserves my acknowledgement: any mistakes or shortcomings are my fault.

And my reviewers, both new and old. Hearing from you both cheers me, and makes me a better writer. Thank you, and I hope you will continue to follow this tale. And, if you for some reason do not, I would be very grateful to know why. It might be something I can fix…

I am grateful for all of you that reads and follows this story: without anyone reading, it would not be much point for me to post.

Misspelling fixed: Thank to **LindaHoyland** who pointed it out to me.

I will, as time allows, clean up Book 1. **Wheelrider** is helping me proof-read the older chapters so any mistakes still left, should be caught. I will probably add the prologue and an appendix with timeline to that book at the same time. Just a head's up in case any of you receive an alert.


	6. The Thoughts of Their Hearts

_Warnings: _see last chapter_  
Disclaimer: _see first chapter

* * *

**The Thoughts of Their Hearts**

The Enemy's intentions these first months of his victory have never become fully clear. He, who seldom waited for his enemies to act, did not press his advantage against Gondor and the realms of Men, as had been expected. We now know that he moved to secure the last Rings of Power that until then had eluded him – the Elven Rings hidden in Lothlórien and Imladris, and their Bearers – before turning to Gondor with her captured King and broken armies. This plan was sound, and should have been anticipated by the Wise, but the main strike had been directed towards Gondor before the regaining of the Ring. The defeat at the Morannon, and the capture of the leaders of the West, changed the situation. Having already secured one of the Bearers, and with Gondor's might broken, the Enemy could afford to let the invasion of Gondor wait a few days.

His mistake, it would later be shown, was his dismissal of Rohan.

Gaining the White City, the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr did not pursue Éomer king, nor did he press onwards to the conquest of Rohan. Partly, it is guessed, this was due to his need to subdue all parts of Gondor, and to establish the Enemy's power in that land. The people of Dor-en-Ernil, of Belafas and Dol Amroth, more than any others, delayed this, refusing to bend before Mordor. Threats to the hostaged King did not sway them, for the lord Elessar was unknown to them then. But the Enemy had plans for him more important than to be killed to subdue the fishermen of Dol Amroth.

…

_They mean to break you._

He knew. It would have been more of a surprise if they had not. It was the method that confounded him: he had expected pain, not this boredom. This _un-knowing_. This darkness where he almost doubted what he felt.

_Like water eating away the stone, one drop at a time. Or the wearing down of stone steps, one footfall after the other; with time deep groves are formed._

And in time he, too, might be worn by the smallest of pains.

_That is how they will break you._

He knew.

"I know," he told the darkness. "I know!"

But knowing did not help much. They had seen him fight. That servant of Sauron had seen him on his knees. Had studied him. Had gauged his reactions. Seen his fight against his bonds, his guards. Had, Aragorn had no doubt, had reports from the guards about that first night before the Black Gate. From the healers.

The Mouth of Sauron must have thought his mind would be easier to break than his body.

_And is it not?_

Aragorn laughed.

"No," he told the darkness. "My body will break before my will. Have I not forced that slave to look away every time our eyes have met? Did I not wrest the _palantir_ from Sauron's power?"

The darkness did not answer, and he could feel the earth underneath his fingers again, the stone at his back. He got to his feet and walked back and forth as far as he could reach for the chains. It was still dark, but the darkness seemed lighter.

Until the small voice crept back:

_What if you cannot?_

…

In the early days of the occupation of Gondor, the Enemy made few demands that the Steward could not in good conscience fulfil. The first weeks were full of practical tasks, such as the recalling of the people that had fled the City, rebuilding the buildings needed to house both the returning people and the soldiers of the Enemy. The lord Faramir was also charged with the task of disarming the soldiers of Gondor, a painful task but not unusual, nor unreasonable. Harder was the command that all edged tools, even such as were needed for a butcher's or a wood-cutter's trade, were to be turned in; the Mouth would have no weapons in Gondor unless it was in the hands of his own men.

Though harsh, it was not pointlessly cruel. Meat was scarce, but it was the firewood that caused the Steward most worry.

In the unnatural darkness that prevailed these first months of the Enemy's triumph, more wood was needed than the time of year would demand, both for warmth and for cooking. Scraps of wood from the destroyed buildings could be gathered and used, but it was not enough, nor was all the wood small enough that it would be used in the hearths.

It was not until the Mouth was satisfied that all weapons were handed in, and the re-instated Council of Gondor had passed the law – all in proper order according to the customs of Gondor, except for the King's approval which had not mattered since the time of Mardil Voronwë – that no man or woman in Gondor could own or bear any edged or pointed weapon in public, nor own any knife larger than a kitchen-knife, unless approved and appointed by the King or his officials, at the approval of Mordor.

None dared to comment that the first woodcutters and butchers were approved quickly once meat and firewood became so scarce that even the leaders of the Emeny's army were running low.

Harsh as the ban against weapons were, some of Mordor's edicts proved harsher. Too harsh for the Steward to follow without complaint.

…

In the dark, Aragorn recited the stories and the songs of the past, his childhood learning. The long tales from when the world was young. Of the light of the Trees. Of clear voices singing in the star-light. Of breaking waves and the call of the gulls, and of the coming of Elves and Men. And the stories turned dark, and there was valour and despair and Aragorn sang through his tears and let the old words lament the new fear.

_Lo! Húrin Thalion in the hosts of battle_  
_was whelmed in war, when the white banners_  
_of the ruined king were rent with spears,_  
_in blood beaten; when the blazing helm_  
_of Finweg fell in flame of swords…_

_No_. It was not a song to lift the heart. He searched for others, for the songs of his manhood: those he had learned in other lands — lands of green grass and sun.

_Horselords, listen …_

_Yes_. Thundering hooves, the wind of speed blowing in his face, and horns. Horns, horns; great horns of wild joy and the freedom of running horses.

_Far south in the city of stone_  
_The worthy lord sat in war-troubled thought._  
_Counsel the Steward of the Stonemen sought;_  
_Wisdom to win victory in war._  
_No kin nor kindred close they had _  
_And enemies all around drew near._  
_Then Mundburg's master his mind turned _  
_North to Horselords for help in need…_

But in the darkness his mind would falter, and turn back to the lament and fear; the words of that lay echoing in his mind. Over and over in the lonely days and nights.

_That field yet now the folk name it_  
_Nirnaith Ornoth, Unnumbered Tears:_  
_the seven chieftains of the sons of Men_  
_fled there and fought not, the folk of the Elves_  
_betrayed with treason. Their troth alone_  
_unmoved remembered in the mouths of Hell_  
_Thalion Erithámrod and his thanes renowned._  
_Torn and trampled the triple standard_  
_of the House of Hithlum was heaped with slain._  
_In host upon host from the hills swarming_  
_with hideous arms the hungry Orcs_  
_enmeshed his might, and marred with wounds_  
_pulled down the proud Prince of Mithrim._  
_At Bauglir's bidding they bound him living;_  
_to the halls of Hell neath the hills builded,_  
_to the Mountains of Iron, mournful, gloomy,_  
_they led the lord of the Lands of Mist,_  
_Húrin Thalion, to the throne of hate_  
_in halls upheld with huge pillars_  
_of black basalt._

One song alone could his heart not bear to remember.

The Lay of Leithian.

…

The Lieutenant of Barad-dûr wrote many letters and reports to his master during the conquest of Gondor, but the letters were written on the thin sheets made from reeds that some of the people of Harad use – a most fragile paper — and are so corrupted that they are now difficult to read, the ink faded or the paper destroyed by time. But the parts that still can be read, I have copied that they might be preserved. Here is given the pieces that speak of the king Elessar, and of the Steward, lord Faramir.

"_Elessar is a proud and arrogant man," _states the first readable sentence. _"He does not compare to his forbearers, much less to the leaders of Your servants, my Lord, but he is stubborn, and he will not be swayed by reason or pain, for he bears pain well. While it is true that all men will break under torment when the pain becomes too much, I deem that he will be left useless to You, should we rely on pain alone. This much I have learned from my dealings with him."_

The following words cannot be read, but a little further down, they become clear again.

"… _first dealing with him, it became clear that Elessar thinks highly of himself and of his own importance. His claim of kingship and arrogant belief that his forces could stand against Your might, show this clearly, but also in my meeting with him I sensed this arrogance. At the time the wizard was of greater concern, but I marked that he seemed to think the wizard his servant, leaving it to him to do the talking._

_His misplaced pride became even clearer to me the second time Elessar came before me. He refused to repent his misdeeds and make amends by serving You. I could see that he expected to be punished for this, but in accordance with Your will I dismissed him. _

_Since his defeat, Elessar have been granted little freedom. This I have done to impress upon him that he is at Your mercy and have lost all power except what You chose to grant him. To reinforce this lesson, I have ordered that he is to always be bound in some way, even when he is locked in. This continued discomfort wears on him, more so, I suspect, than he lets show._

_But his will are not to be broken by this alone._

_Since he is proud, we humiliate him. We take from him his movement, his sight, his speech. We leave him helpless and alone. Only the guards, and if needed a healer, see him. He is given no tidings, and I never let him know how closely I have him watched. All to impress on him of how little consequence he is._

_One exception I will allow, to observe the bond between the Steward and Elessar. I admit that I do not fully understand why the Steward would so quickly come to care for one that would have taken away his rule, but I have seen that it is so. The Steward…"_

The rest of the letter is lost.

…

One night, if night it was, they came for him. Dragged him out — though he would have walked willingly. Out of the room, out into the air. Out into the streets.

The streets were silent beyond his guards. Night-silent. He could not see where he was taken, but the road rose and rose. Up. Up the levels of the City. They passed through one tunnel; Aragorn could hear the echoes of their feet. They passed two, then more, until he was taken inside once more. Down stairs and through doors that rang of metal. And then they reached their end.

He reached whatever end they meant for him. He was yanked to a halt, pushed down – kicked down – until he was kneeling. And they left. They left him kneeling, chained to the floor, alone in the silence. He could hear nothing above his own breaths, and his own blood pounding in his head. No footsteps. No clang of metal doors. Nothing.

_They have not left._

The door had not closed; there were still guards with him. Aragorn tensed, waiting for them to begin whatever they had taken him there to do.

But nothing happened, and nothing continued to happen.

The body cannot stay alert forever. His mind told him that he was not alone; that he had to stay awake. But his body could not. He would nod, and catch himself before he fell, and soon he would nod again. He almost missed the footsteps when they came.

There was movement around him; he could feel it. The wait was over, even so he was startled by the first touch: the light stroke of fingertips in his hair.

"Elessar," said the Mouth, and Aragorn tried to move away from his touch but the chains were too short. Aragorn could feel his breath on his face. "Hast thou learned to fear, since thou shrinkest from me?"

Aragorn shook his head.

"No?" said the Mouth, and there was dark amusement in his voice. "If it were true, I would say nothing to it, for I have been most lenient to thee; thou hast not been put to torment, or given over to the Orcs. Thy wounds have been tended, and food and drink given to thee. I have not given thee reason to fear me. But thy own actions belie thy words: thou fearst me."

Aragorn did not move. The Mouth continued to stroke his fingers through his hair, moved them down to his face. Aragorn fought to stay still, to show him nothing. The Mouth was silent for a while, then he spoke again.

"Elessar," he said, and Aragorn wished he would not use that name. "While thou hast idled thy days away, all of Gondor has fallen to my hand. Thy Steward has been broken to my will, and through me the will of our Lord. I have time to turn to lesser concerns, until the word comes and I go to claim all lands in the Great Lord's name."

_Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out._

He listened to his own breaths, the beating of his own heart; used them to block out the words that fell on him, to let the voice wash over him and trickle away. Not let the poison enter his mind.

_They mean to break you._

Aragorn closed his eyes behind the blindfold, closed his ears against the Mouth, and waited for the torment to begin.

It was not until later, when they left him chained to the floor and he heard the door ring shut and the footsteps dwindle, that he understood that the torment had already begun.

…

Most of the laws passed in these early days were no different than any conqueror would demand, for the Mouth's first aim was to strengthen his hold on Gondor. But a few were not.

Once such was the law for widows and unwed women.

_"All women above the age of seventeen that belong to a household that can not account for all their men-folk – whether by the men presenting themselves or by showing the body before burial – are to serve in the barracks of the soldiers no less than two days and nights each week, until such time that order has returned to the land of Gondor and its people have come fully under the rule and protection of Mordor and its ruler – their liege-lord."_

"Uncle?"

Imrahil was sitting on a narrow bed, the only furniture in the room. Though not in any of the prisons — of which there seemed to be more of every day — the room was still a cell. Locked door. Windows small and barred. Guards outside the door. But the bed was clean, with pillows of eiderdown and warm blankets, and the mattress stuffed with clean straw. The Prince was still recovering from his wounds.

"Uncle."

Faramir stood beside the bed. In his hand, he held the scroll which he had given prince Imrahil to read.

"Uncle, speak to me."

"Tell me that it is not true." Imrahil turned to face Faramir and his face was of one who thought he had seen the worst happen, and been wrong.

"Tell me that my eyes did not read those words," he said. "Tell me that the scroll in your hand never was. Tell me that they do not ask us to whore our women."

Faramir closed his eyes.

Imrahil turned away. "What do you want from me?" he asked. His lips were pressed so close that his words were hard to understand. "My blessing?"

"No, uncle," Faramir said. "Your counsel. The Enemy has not let his soldiers pillage our homes and carry off the women, not after our surrender."

"Your surrender," Imrahil said. "Our defeat."

"Uncle…" Faramir stopped himself.

"Since the surrender," he began anew, "the Enemy has not allowed any plunder and our women have not been touched. Yet. The Mouth claims that the women are only called to serve at the tables, or cook; or clean for the soldiers, nothing more."

"And you believe him?"

"No."

The silence stretched between them, into the time they did not have. Outside the darkness continued unchanged, turning night to day and day to night. Grass would not grow this spring, nor crops, and the enemy would take what food there was left for themselves. Come harvest there would be nothing to celebrate, only famine and hunger, unless the clouds would soon part.

It was Faramir who broke the silence.

"Uncle, I need some way to hinder this law, and yet make sure worse do not come from it. But I do not know how."

Imrahil looked at him. "You do not know how?" He smiled. It was strained and vain, but it was the first smile Faramir had seen Imrahil make. "Faramir, if you do not know how to avoid the wishes of you ruler… you managed well enough under you father."

"This is the Enemy," Faramir answered. "My father… there were no risks then. Not like now."

"There was risk then as well."

"Only to myself."

And therein lay the rub.

Imrahil choose to take a different route. "Why does the Mouth want you to get this law passed?" he asked. "He could let the soldiers take what spoils they want, and we could not stop them. You could not stop them. No, there is some deeper purpose to the Mouth's demands."

"Yes," Faramir answered. "And I do not know what it is. If I knew, I might know better what to do."

"You are the only visitor allowed, except the healer," Imrahil said. "If you do not know, I cannot be of much help. But I do not see much choice for you; if you let this law pass, they will pressure you further and further until you break. Until you cannot any longer resist, whatever they may ask, and you become a puppet, no better than any servant of the Enemy.

"If you refuse…"

Faramir sat down beside Imrahil. He did not look at his uncle but stared at the door. It was a heavy, wooden door, closed shut even against sound. Or so it would seem. Still Faramir hesitated. The Mouth had many ears.

"I cannot let this law pass," he said at length. "And I cannot refuse too openly."

"And my counsel," Imrahil said, "you do not need, son of my sister."

Faramir shook his head. "I do not. But I wished it all the same. I know, now, that such wishes are vain."

"When all choices are evil, good counsel cannot be had."

"Or given."

They could not bear to speak of the fears closer to them. Of the fate of loved ones, of the living and dead. Of their own fates which lay in darkness. Of what new horrors the Enemy might demand. And so they did not speak until their time had almost run out; until they could hear the changing of the guard outside, and both knew that soon one must leave, and the other stay. Then, at last, Imrahil spoke.

"Do you have news of the King?"

The door opened, and the guards called for the Steward to leave. Faramir rose. His answer spoken in a low voice, so as not to reach the guards at the door.

"None that I can trust."

…

He must have slept, because he woke up.

Aragorn lay on the floor, stiff and sore. He could not move, nor stretch, nor rise, and the stone was cold underneath him. Still chained down. Blind. Mute. And he could not move. And he was alone.

Fear took him then, and he could not push it back.

He began to fight against the bonds. Fought to move, to call, to be free. And nothing helped.

_They mean to break you. _But he did not listen to the voice. Alone. In darkness. Chains. Cold. Darkness. Alone.

He screamed, but only muffled sound were heard. Chains rattled, and did not budge. Did not break. Alone. Darkness. Cold. He fell into the red dark where he knew nothing but the struggle. He did not know how long he was lost; when he found himself again it was still cold, still dark, and he could not move.

…

It was even later that the Mouth returned. Aragorn was too tired to move, too tired to jerk his head away from the touch of his fingers.

"So, Elessar, thou hast learned to surrender to my will and the will of the Great Lord."

_That_ made him flinch.

"The Great Lord has shown thee mercy, Elessar, hath thou but understanding to see it." He paused, and he must have given some sign for Aragorn was hoisted back on his knees. "Thou wilt learn, and be grateful for that mercy," the Mouth continued, and the gag was undone and fell from Aragorn's mouth. "Though it matters little; the Great Lord's purposes cannot be thwarted. Grateful or not thou wilt serve him."

Aragorn tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry. He shook his head in denial.

Fingers snapped. "Water," the Mouth ordered.

Movement around him. The sound of pouring water. A cup touching his lips, a hand tipping his head. Cold, clear water. Filling his mouth. Soothing.

Aragorn drank.

"Thou seest the mercy given to thee?" the Mouth said. "Unmerited, without condition."

"Not… not entirely." Aragorn swallowed. His tongue was thick and swollen and his words slurred; the water was not enough. Just enough that he could speak. "Not without conditions: you want something of me, you and Sauron, your master. For I am still alive, and you are here yourself."

A finger brushed across his face and Aragorn shrank from it. The Mouth laughed.

"The Great Lord wants many things," he said. "He needs nothing. Thou art alive because it pleases him that thou should be, and he pities thee; the Elves and the Wizards have used thee, and thou hath been their unwitting pawn."

"No."

"In truth it is so. The Great Lord sees and knows all things. He knows, far better than thee, the minds and plots of those that have stood against him before thou wert born. And he knows even thy thoughts."

At that Aragorn laughed. "You forget, Mouth of Sauron, or perhaps your master has not told you: I fought Sauron in the seeing-stone. He did not know until then that I lived, did not know I walked upon this earth until I chose to show myself to him. No, Sauron does not know my thoughts, nor my mind or heart."

Silence followed his words. The soft swish of cloth against his face told him that the Mouth had risen. Then nothing again. Aragorn waited. He would not offer words unasked; safer, if there should be any secrets left to keep. And speaking would not help him, not now.

"Thou art silent," the Mouth said at length. "Loudly thou speakest when thou thinkest none will hear, but in company thou hast no words. And thou wouldst be king? Tongue-tied even in such small company. Is thy fear that great?"

_He means to break you._ But even so…

"Thou hast not given me voice," Aragorn answered.

His head was wrenched back and he could feel the breath of the Mouth on his cheek. It did not surprise him.

"Do not presume us equals, Elessar," the Mouth hissed.

"I did not."

Aragorn had guessed what would follow that answer as well.

…

_Was it worth it?_

The question remained with him, alone in the dark afterwards. "Dost thou think it worth it, Elessar?" the Mouth had asked before he left. Aragorn had not answered. Could not answer. Not then.

_Was it worth it?_

Perhaps. Even though little had changed. Even though he hurt. Even though it still was dark, he still was alone, and he could not move. He still had some power, if only the power to anger his jailor.

Aragorn held on to that thought to the long hours that followed. Alone. In the dark. Where he could not move. He could not see. He could not scream. And he _could not move_.

When finally, finally, he heard footsteps and the opening of the door, Aragorn had no strength left to move even his head. Hands grappled him, and he heard the guards muttering about the stench. As if they have given him any choice.

_They mean to break you._

But the knowing did not lessen the sting.

"Thou art a fool, Elessar."

_Perhaps_, Aragorn conceded. _But not from lack of knowledge_.

"A fool to believe the gray-beard and the Elves."

_So thou hast said to me before._

"Did they tell thee thou wouldst be the one to vanquish the Great Lord?"

_Just one of many. Not _the _one; that was Frodo_. But that thought hurt.

"They sent thee, and hid in their forests and valleys …"

_Gandalf did not._

"… but they hid in vain. Thy little army did not slow the plans of the Great Lord: the Elves, thy masters, have fallen."

That startled him. _No_. He shook his head. _It is a lie, the time too short_. But the Mouth laughed, and Aragorn did not know how much time had passed. He remembered the army passing on the day after the battle and he shook his head again. Hoping.

"The Noldor witch fell quickly, her golden wood burned and her people dead or captured. She should already be with the Great Lord."

_That should not have been said outside Lórien, not even to me._ But that was in another time. Now… now Sauron would know the bearers of the Three.

"And the half-breed, and all his house; they are even now being taken to Mordor. All that survived."

He fought not to move. Not to react. _He means to break you. Breathe. He lies._

But the Mouth bent close; close enough to feel the tension in his body. Close enough that he could feel the heat of his breath on his neck. In his ear.

"None escaped."

He held still. Still he held.

"They say his daughter is most beautiful. I shall soon know the truth of it."

He fought. Then Aragorn fought with newfound strength. The guards holding him swore, but what he heard was the Mouth of Sauron laughing.

"Unless her beauty already has been marred by the orcs…"

Aragorn did not hear the rest of the Mouth's words. Sickness welled up within him, and he no longer fought the guards or his bonds. The hands let go of him and he fell, convulsing on the floor. He gagged. He could not breathe.

"Remove the gag."

"My lord, it…"

"You will die, slowly, if he does."

The guard obeyed. Aragorn coughed and spat, and gagged on the smell and the taste. And then he retched again. And again. Again, until his heaves were dry and his stomach cramped, and still he could not stop. They left him, and he did not hear their parting words; too sick to sense anything beyond his own body and the one name echoing in his mind:

_Arwen!_

…

When next they came for him, the Mouth kept his distance and the guards' muttered complaints were louder.

"What would they think of thee now, Elessar?"

The voice moved around him, and Aragorn moved his head to follow.

"What would the elves think of thee? Thy men? Thy people? What would they think of thee if they could see thee wallowing in thy own filth and sickness?"

The voice was different, as if the Mouth spoke through water. Or a cloth. Aragorn coughed, and said nothing.

"They would wash their hands of thee." The Mouth laughed. "And washing they would need; thou art filthy."

At that Aragorn grew calm and still. He lifted his head, and though his sight was taken he looked at the Mouth and showed no fear. His voice was rough, he formed his words slowly and with care, but his speech was clear.

"The filth is yours. Thine and thine servants; thy hospitality is sorely lacking."

There was a short pause, and then one of the guards cuffed his head.

"Mend thy manners."

"When thou mendest thine."

"Thou wouldst make demands, Elessar?" But he heard laugher in the Mouth's voice.

"Leave me," Aragorn answered. "I grow weary of thy words. If thou fearst me so that thou must deny me movement even behind locked doors; deny me sight even when there is no light; deny me speech when there is none to hear, then go back to thy master, Slave of Sauron. Thou wilt fear me even in my grave."

"Thou thinkest thou canst anger me with thy words, Elessar. What doest thou hope to gain? Not thy words and deeds it is that govern thy fate, but thy Steward's obedience."

"Lord Faramir has not seen me." Aragorn had to stop and swallow before he could continue his speech. "Thy…" he coughed and straitened himself again. "Thy words betray thee; Faramir must trust in what lies thou tellest him."

"Not entirely." Aragorn could hear the sneer in the Mouth's voice. "Show our guest to his bath."

Hands hauled him to his feet and he was dragged away, down corridors and up stairs. When they stopped, he was first given the same bath had he had been given before. The guards' laughter rang in his ears whenever he was pulled up, mocking his desperate gasps for air. But it did not last long. After just a few dips, he was given some respite. He lay on the floor, coughing, while around him the guards moved. Words were shouted, but he could not make out their meaning.

Before he could recover completely the hands were back, but this time they merely released his bonds. The light blinded him and his limbs were stiff and swollen, but he tried to move, wary of what they next intended.

"Strip."

He hesitated, or was he merely too stiff? It did not matter; the guards stripped off his shirt, ripping it in their impatience. He managed to fight them off before they could take more.

"I am able to remove my own clothes," he said. His eyes had adjusted somewhat to the light and he could see a tub of water standing there. A bath? _Unless they mean to deceive you._ But they could easily have cut the clothes from his body while he was bound, or overpower him again and tear them from him. With all the dignity he could muster, he took off the remaining clothes and stood naked before them.

"Get in, and wash yourself well – if your filth can be washed from you."

Aragorn did not answer the guard, but he looked at him. A man of Harad, like the rest; tall among his own men, but Aragorn towered above him. When he caught his eye, the guard could not hold his gaze.

"Go back to your master and tell him that I require no attendance for my bath."

"Just get in, or you will be attended whether you wish or not," the man grated through clenched teeth.

"Your men are too poorly trained for such service."

Aragorn lingered a moment longer. He could see the man clench his hands into fists, but neither he nor the other men lifted their hands against him. Aragorn waited until the man was about to move before he walked over to the tub and sat himself down.

The water was warm and clean with scented oils, and soap with which to wash. His cuts stung a little, but the warmth soothed stiff limbs and bruises. Aragorn ignored the guards and let the water warm him, and loosen the dust and dirt and sweat and filth that layered his skin, before he began to wash it off.

…

The king was kept apart throughout his stay in Minas Tirith. Except for his guards– all enemy soldiers from Harad or Umbar– few people were allowed to see him. Among those few was a healer of the Haradrim whose name has been lost. His report, however, survived.

"_Elessar of the North did not suffer any grievous hurt during his stay in the Stone-city, and he was, with a few exceptions, treated well. Better, at least, than our leaders would have received in the Northmen's care._

_I noticed, in the time I was given responsibility for his well-being, only a few incidents of neglect from the guards, and only one of those was clearly the result of ill-will._

_In the confusion of the siege and battle when the Stone-city fell, the prisoner was left without food or water for at least one day and two nights. This negligence was understandable, if unfortunate, and it was remedied before the prisoner's life was in danger. But the other incidence happened under no such mitigating circumstances, and posed a far greater threat to the prisoner's life._

_Following the order of the Mouth of our Great Lord, food and water was never given to the prisoner at regular hours. This has little influence on a man's body as long as he is given enough to sustain his life. But about one week after the Stone-city was taken, the guards waited too long. Perhaps they were angry, for several of the soldiers that had been wounded died from their wounds at that time, or perhaps they simply did not think, but they left the prisoner without water for almost three days._

_They realised their mistake when the prisoner did not move or speak when they at last saw to him, and I was sent for._

_I have no doubt that he would have been dead within the day from lack of water, and it took five days before he fully recovered. The guards claimed that they had offered him both water and food, but that he had denied them. That must clearly be a lie, for the prisoner's fingers bore marks that he in desperation had scratched at the door and the floor, and he would surely have taken water before being so reduced, had he the chance. In my dealings with the prisoner he always behaved with as much dignity a prisoner could keep, and I do not believe he would go digging in the ground unless driven by the desperate thirst which makes the strongest man weak and drives the proudest to begging. And even so, Elessar of the North would not, I deem, be reduced to begging had he chosen this manner of death. Also he drank readily when I gave him water._

_The Great Lord's Mouth was informed of the incident, and it was never repeated._

_Twice I was called upon to watch over the prisoner's torment. When I was called the first time, I expected him to be under questioning; my orders were to clear him for a whipping, should he be fit, and the guards would not dare neglect their duties again. Furthermore, I would have been called sooner had the prisoner fallen ill. Unless weakened by questioning, the prisoner would have been strong enough that no healer would be needed to clear him._

_I found, unexpectedly, that the prisoner was in his bath when I arrived. Yet another testimony of his mild treatment._

_It eased my duty, for I was able to study him more closely. He had already washed himself most thoroughly when I arrived, and at my order fresh towels were brought. I did not wish that he should dirty himself using his clothes to dry off. Moreover, the Mouth of our Lord had charged me to find any hidden hurt that might have been overlooked._

_The prisoner had new bruises on his chest and arms, and on his back, but all other marks were old and fading. The cut on his face and on his neck were the exception; they were slow to heal, I noted, and the one on his brow most so. His wrists, too, bore marks both old and new, as if the prisoner had newly fought his bonds. His grip was a little weak; still it was the cut on his brow that worried me most. I had to lance it until it bleed clean once more: the second time, though enough time had passed that it should have been healed._

_I had fresh water fetched to clean the cuts; though the prisoner was cleaner than I had yet seen him, the used water stank and was most unclean. I did not wish to risk further corruption to the wounds. _

_The prisoner did not fight the treatment. _

_A naked man can do little against armed guards, still it seemed to me that it was they that feared him, not he them. None among them would meet his eyes while I was there. Towards me he acted with a calm dignity such as I have only seen in our most noble soldiers. And never in one un-clothed among his jailors._

_The Northmen must in truth be without shame, or he would not have ignored his own nakedness thus._

_Indeed, the people of the Stone-city are shameless, with no sense of propriety. Their young, unwed women walk with hair uncovered and unbound, and the people themselves walk with bare faces. Neither beards nor cloth cover them so that the thoughts of their hearts can be readily seen. And all but a few know not how to read the subtle language of the eyes._

_The prisoner, however, needed no coverings to hide the thoughts of his heart, and even his eyes could not be read by me. I wondered at the time whether this, rather than a lack of shame, enabled him to appear clothed even in his nakedness._

_But though I could not read the prisoner's heart, his body spoke of its needs and I need no translation to understand that language. And his body needed rest, and food, and clothes to stave off cold, and salves and bandages to keep his wounds clean so that they could heal; but most of all it needed water._

_It was because of the prisoner's lack of water, and because I knew from the smell of the bath-water and his soiled clothes that he had been ill, that I advised that the prisoner should be given two days' rest before the whipping, and that he be given clean and warm clothes, food, and drink in that time. I also advised that he would not be subjected to further questioning. That was when I learned that the prisoner had not been questioned._

_His bruises could not have been the result of unsanctioned neglect, for none of the guards were punished. The Mouth did, however, heed my advice and bade me oversee the prisoner's treatment. _

_'I will have him strong in body,' he told me. And I did my best to fulfil his command._

_The whipping, when it took place, was led by the Mouth of our Lord himself. It was a simple punishment, which spoke of the importance of the prisoner and the care the Mouth takes in all his duties. _

_The defeated Steward was present as well, for the punishment was his rather than the prisoner's. It was clear that the Steward cared for him, though he spoke little at first. But the Northmen, as I have said, go barefaced and do not cover the thoughts of their hearts; the Steward wept with no shame._

_It was a severe whipping, for despite his tears the Steward did not speak the words the Mouth of our Lord wished to hear. At one point I was concerned for the prisoner's breathing, for he was gagged and had swooned, and water did not rouse him: it was the lack of air, more than pain, which dragged him down._

_When the Mouth would not have the gag removed, but threatened to continue the punishment despite the danger to the prisoner, the Steward broke, as the servant of our Lord had known. The prisoner was then allowed to recover. I was able to rouse him to coherence, and though he had not the strength to stand, he was well enough to speak, and even mock my attempts to measure his lucidity._

_The remainder of the punishment was delivered without further halts. The prisoner was unresponsive after its completion."_

_..._

* * *

**Notes on quotations:**

The first and last excerpt of poetry is quoted from _The Lays of Beleriand (HoME 3)_, the second version of _The Children of Húrin_.

The middle excerpt is from my own poem _The Ride of Eorl_, posted here under _Songs of the Mark_. I have made slight alterations to the version given above.

"_That should not have been said outside Lórien, not even to me". _FotR, The Great River

**A/N**: My thanks to the people on **The Garden of Ithilien** and my beta **JAUL** for help getting the chapter into shape.

I also want to thank my readers and reviewers: it is very uplifting to know that you are reading and enjoying my story.


	7. False Victory

_**Disclaimer:**_ see first chapter

**A/N: **to** Nynaeve's sister,** since I could not answer you directly: You question is very relevant, and one I have thought of, but I have so far not said much about Faramir's motivations since my POV-characters have not been in a position to know much about them. I hope, however, that this chapter will clear up most of the questions as to why he would seemingly sacrifice a people for one man.

_**Warnings and further notes:**_see end of chapter

* * *

**False victory**

_"The people of Gondor are stiff-necked."_

The Steward had stalled the law of widows and unmarried women, claiming that too many lay dead on the field to give an accurate account of all the dead; that too many had not yet returned to the City to say for certain whether the men had fled or not; that the women were needed to rebuild. And the Mouth, testing the Steward's resolve, had let his excuses pass for a time, slowly adding pressure to find the Steward's breaking point, until he had the King whipped. By then, Faramir had managed to modify the law, so that the women would work only by day. He hoped that would serve as some protection, as it was later proved to do.

But the Mouth did not let him savour this victory for long.

In truth, it is uncertain whether it could be called a victory, for the Steward could no longer deny the Enemy, and he knew it even before the King was whipped. Still, the punishment of the King both served the purpose of the Enemy, and thwarted it.

Faramir relented, but the Mouth decided to press him, now that he had yielded once, and further humiliate both Steward and King with new demands. Acting quickly, he sought to embitter the King against the Steward, and test the bond the Steward had shown towards the King, if it could be of use. Therefore, Faramir was called back to the prison the next day.

No other prisoners were held with the lord Elessar. His cell was small and dark with no windows. Three walls of stone, and the fourth was the bars separating the cell from the corridor.

The king did not know this, nor did he know what image he presented where he lay curled against the wall. A bloodied back where torn flesh bled slowly, and the crusted blood had not been washed away. Though open to the corridor, the cell stank of stale air, of illness, and of filth.

…

_"The people of Gondor are stiff-necked."_

Aragorn lay still. He could feel eyes watching him, pricking at the back of his neck, but he could do nothing to hide. His hands and legs were chained so closely to the wall that he could not turn, and pain flared whenever he tried to move.

It gave him something to fight against.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

Soft movements. Footsteps felt through the ground. A sharp drawing of breath, then nothing. He inched his head to better hear.

"Second lesson."

It was the Mouth of Sauron; Aragorn knew his voice.

"Yesterday you were taught the cost of disobedience. Now you must learn the cost of sloth."

And Aragorn knew then that the Mouth spoke not to him, but to Faramir.

"Take light inside so that my pupil can see better."

And he could feel the steps of the guard, could _sense_ him stand over him. Oh! to be able to shrink into the dirty straw! But he held, waiting.

"You have not tended his wounds."

Faramir's voice. It was rough.

"I have learned, the law is passed: this serves no…"

"You have not learned to keep your tongue, I see," the Mouth said. Aragorn tensed, but the Mouth merely spoke on. "You, Steward, are but a servant. You must learn to obey, not question, and to obey quickly. I have a new task for you, and when that task is done, I will send a healer to see to your would-be king."

Aragorn nearly spoke then. _What law? What task?_ The words hovered on his tongue, waiting to spill over his lips. He hesitated. He did not trust his voice. Nor would he trust the answer the Mouth might give. If answer he would.

"And what does the lord order?"

Faramir's voice echoed his own mistrust.

"It is a simple task of cleaning. The Citadel court have fallen in disarray; you will have it set to its proper state before midsummer."

"At once." Faramir answered too quick, skirting the edge of interruption. Aragorn could hear him standing posted to leave before the Mouth could reveal his true test.

"You will take what men you need," the Mouth continued. "And make sure to clean away all the dead plants that clutter around the fountain."

"Nothing grows in Court of the Fountain."

There was a silence.

_No._ Aragorn saw the Mouth's meaning an instance before Faramir's "No!" echoed his thought.

"Not the Tree." Faramir's voice was but a whisper, a child pleading that his fear be not true.

The Mouth did not speak, but Aragorn arched away from the sudden blow. The chains rattled and he bit of a cry. There were voices and movement from the door, but the words were swallowed and drowned. He curled back in on himself and hid his head as best he could; pressed against the wall, his breathing quick, he made himself small and steeled himself against the next kick.

It did not fall.

In the silence, he heard movement. At least two or three more people entered his cell. The guard withdrew; another took his place and knelt behind Aragorn.

Then nothing.

Aragorn's breath came in shallow, short bursts. He could sense the kneeling man, could sense there were others around, but they were silent. He could hear his own breath, could hear the torches burn, could feel the warmth from the flames on his skin, but nothing else happened. He turned his head slightly, trying to hear the guards better, trying to judge how many they were and what they would do.

A hand on his shoulder. Light, barely there. A familiar touch, but it brought no comfort. He flinched and turned his face back to the wall.

The Mouth slid his hand down around his throat and under his chin. He tried to twist away from the grip, but the Mouth held him and slowly turned his face back towards the room.

"Look at him," the Mouth said. "So proud once. Now he is filthy and weak and flinches from my touch. Tell me, little king," he whispered into Aragorn's ear, "how dost thou like thy kingdom?"

Aragorn did not answer. The Mouth slipped his other hand into Aragorn's hair, then clenched and held his head still while the first hand slithered back across his shoulder and down his spine. Aragorn hissed and strained away. Clenched his teeth and fists.

The Mouth laughed. "Poor little Elessar." He pressed down on a welt. "What is this? Infected already? All because thy Steward is slow. Slothful and unwilling. Poor, uncrowned king." He pulled Aragorn closer. A hand stole back around his throat. Fingers dug into the sinews underneath the ears, too hard to be a caress. Too soft to strangle. Aragorn swallowed against the pressure. He could feel the breath upon his face when the Mouth spoke again.

"Perhaps the Steward should be replaced? The Great Lord has many servants, willing and quick. Or would mayhap a king do better? Mordor does not ask much of its tributaries." His grip softened to soothing strokes; comforting, if it had been other hands, other places.

But Aragorn laughed at the words, and the laugh was bitter. His voice was hoarse and rough when he spoke. "Didst thou think that I would break that quick? That I would believe thy lies? Sauron will never make me king. I am a hostage, and that is all the use he will get from me."

"Our lord needs no other." Ever so slowly, the Mouth once more tightened his grip. "Do not think he needs thy good will, brigand; the Great Lord's will is always done. Now wert thou a good hostage. Cry. Beg. Scream. Let thy Steward know what his useless resistance has brought."

Aragorn was silent.

The Mouth did not speak again. He kept his grip, and Aragorn could feel him turn, could hear the clang of a bucket, and the slosh of water. Could hear the startled reaction of Faramir.

Aragorn kept still. He knew that he could not avoid whatever they would do next, and in some way, he was almost relived. There would be pain. He did not doubt that there would be more pain, but pain was merely pain. It was simple. Against it, he could fight, and he could endure. The weeks– was it already weeks? – alone in the cell, waiting, never knowing when they would come, never knowing what would happen, what they'd do, never knowing what was happening outside, were somehow worse.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

Taking his time, the Mouth trailed his fingers over Aragorn's back. That touch, Aragorn thought, was harder to endure than had the whip. And he could not avoid the hand. The Mouth seemed to sense this, felt his tension perhaps. That soft laughter again, so close that he could feel it more than hear.

_Breathe in…_

"Beg," his captor whispered. "Cry. Weep."

… _breathe out._

Aragorn said nothing.

The Mouth laughed again. "Thou willt. In the end all Men break, and weep. But whether _thou_ cryest now or later, maters not; _he_ weeps now." Aragorn could feel him turn and strain, reaching for something. "I will be merciful, Steward," the Mouth said. "I will do better than give fresh straw; I will treat his wounds."

Salt! At the first touch of it, Aragorn tensed. Water ran down his back, stinging with salt: it was brine. He fought to escape the hand that rubbed it into his skin. In vain. He could not lift his head. His hands and legs were bound to the wall; the chains clinked and rattled, but did not budge. He hissed in pain.

The Mouth let go of his head, removed his hand.

Aragorn breathed hard. The salt stung his shoulders just as bad as at the first touch.

The handle of the bucket rattled, then the hands were back. One snaked up his chest and closed softly round his throat under the chin, gripping his jaw.

The other brought more saltwater.

He would not scream. _He would not scream_. That thought he clung to when the Mouth continued to scrub his wounds with brine.

_He did not scream_. That thought he clung to when they had left and he lay there alone in the dark. He had not screamed or begged, and he had only shed a few tears. Those did not count; they were the body's tears of pain, not tears of defeat and despair. As were the croaking sounds he'd made.

_He did not scream_. That much control he still retained. He could not rise or turn; he could not stop his body fighting in vain. He could not stop them, could not avoid the pain. He could not even brush away the hair that stuck to his face. But _he did not scream_!

It was a meagre comfort.

It was all he had.

…

_"The people of Gondor is stiff-necked, my Lord, and the fisherfolk of Dol Amroth more so."_

Dol Amroth and its people proved themselves hard to subdue. By the middle of May, the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr sent prince Imrahil there, to force the surrender of his people, which his soldiers had not been able to force. Under guard, the Prince was brought to the walls of his home, but he refused to order his men's surrender.

Up on the walls surrounding Dol Amroth, the sentinels stood. The fasthold lies high on the cliffs overlooking the bay, and they could see far. The village below lay empty, and beyond the enemy camp, out of reach from bowshot, teemed with soldiers. New troops had arrived the evening before, and the people prepared themselves for a new attack.

Soon, horns and drums were heard from the enemy camp. The sentinels gave their own warning, and the remaining defenders gathered on the walls. Up through the village, the enemy advanced. Tall men from the south marched with large shields in front, and behind them came orcs and evil men. They bore banners of black and red, and their shields covered them from any arrows the people of Dol Amroth could send. They halted within sight of the walls, and from behind the shield-wall, a voice rang out.

"Who inside speaks for all?"

From the walls of the stronghold, the answer came:

"Your demands and offers will not be heard. Begone! You have no need to ask for names, for whoever will answer, will all speak the same."

At that, the shield-wall opened, and a captain of the Corsairs stepped out. With him came also great Uruks, dragging with them the Prince of Dol Amroth. They forced him to his knees and held him there. From the walls came a murmur, and shouts of dismay, and the captain held up his hand to speak.

"Other prisoners we have beside, but until you open your gates, and the banners of your insolence no longer fly from your walls, the torment of your lord will not cease, and you will bear witness to it."

And the orcs strung him up in view of the walls until the gates were opened.

It took days before the people wavered. Imrahil — had he been able — would have prided himself of their perseverance.

The Prince's daughter and grandson were not found among the people, to his relief, and though the enemy searched, they were not found. It is thought that the people held out longer than they would, for their sake. The lady Lothíriel escaped with her brother's son, but four years of age, and none heard of her for five years thereafter.

The Lieutenant of Barad-dûr was not pleased.

_"The people of Gondor are stiff-necked."_

…

How long he lay there while he fought the pain, Aragorn did not know. The salt stung and stung and stung and did not let up. He could not hear any sound above his own breaths, stuttering and short. He was alone. The guards were gone; the sting remained.

He cried.

Then he cried. He screamed. He wept and raged. Alone in the darkness of a blindfold fitted too tight, he let himself voice the pain. When none would see and none would hear.

But some did.

Hands. Hands on his shoulder, his arms. He flinched away. He fought. He snarled. Like a beast, trapped and wounded, he snarled and fought against the touch of those hands.

They did not let go.

"My lord! My lord, be calm." A voice broke through his darkness. A voice, but not his guards'. _Faramir_.

"Lord," Faramir said. "Be calm. The guards are gone, the Mouth… they are gone."

"Faramir." His voice was rough, but he stopped fighting. "Faramir."

"Sire." The hands moved, fumbled with the blindfold. "What can I do?"

Aragorn blinked. The light was dim, but still too bright. "Water…"

Faramir was gone and then back again just as quick. Aragorn twisted his neck around to see him; he had a bucket and was about the dip the blindfold into it when Aragorn spoke.

"_Daro_."

"My lord?" Faramir stopped, his hand hovering above the bucket. Whether on purpose or not, he too changed his speech into the Elvish tongue.

"Is it fresh?" Aragorn asked. He formed the words with care; his mouth was dry and stiff. "The water: is it fresh and clean?"

"Yes, it is fresh," Faramir answered, "and clean enough."

"Give me to drink first."

"Not that clean."

"Then it is not clean enough to use." Aragorn grit his teeth. His eyes had grown used to the light and he could see Faramir more clearly. He was pale and drawn, but no shadow had returned yet.

"The salt will sting a while longer," he told him, "but it will keep the wounds clean. I need water, though. If the water is too dirty…"

"What can I do, lord?"

"Can you free my bonds?"

"No."

Aragorn closed his eyes. The floor moved beneath him and the world span. The chains clinked as he tugged on them in frustration.

"Speak, then." Aragorn forced the words out, clipped and short. A few deep breaths to regain control, then he continued. "Tell me what tidings you know. I… I do not even know whether it is day or night."

"It is day," Faramir said. "The twenty-eighth of May; one month and nineteen days since our defeat."

"Since your surrender," Aragorn answered. "If this is the twenty-eighth, our defeat was two months and three days ago."

Faramir fell silent but he did not move away, and when Aragorn grasped in pain he took his hands and held them. Aragorn latched on and gripped tight. A few deep breaths, and then he loosened his grip.

"Is the pain easing?"

Aragorn shook his head. "No," he said. "But I can bear it better, for a while." He paused, and Faramir let go of his hands. He sat in silence, watching Aragorn.

"What would you order me to do, sire?" he asked at length.

"I bear no crown, Faramir, and I am a prisoner."

"And the men that followed you from the North, would you not still order them?" Faramir asked. "What would you have me do? You did not choose me to be your steward—"

"I would," Aragorn said. "If the choice had been mine. And I would have you do what is best for Gondor."

"Sire, you are Gondor."

Aragorn shook his head again.

"You are the king."

Aragorn closed his eyes. For a time he was silent, and when he spoke again his words were slow with many pauses. His hands were fists, and his knuckles white.

"I would not make any claim until it be seen whether we or Mordor should prevail. We did not; I am no king."

"Sire," Faramir said, "The claim has been made for you. Made and accepted."

"Then speak. Is all of Gondor lost or is there still some place that resist? Has any? How great is the army of the enemy? Have they moved on to Rohan, or is the whole army here?" Aragorn swallowed, and before he could continue, Faramir answered.

"Dol Amroth resists. Many of those that escaped before the enemy arrived chose to follow King Éomer to Rohan, but some sailed south, to warn the Southern fiefdoms."

Aragorn's hands unclenched, a little. "Éomer escaped the battle, then. I dared not trust that hope. Is Merry, the Halfling, safe?"

"He is with lord Éomer, as is the King's sister."

Even through the pain, Aragorn could hear a note in Faramir's voice at the mention of the Lady. "Éomer would not have left the Lady Éowyn behind," he said. "I was not sure whether he could convince Merry to leave or not. I am glad he did."

"Neither he nor Éowyn wished to leave."

Aragorn sighed. "I hoped she would have time to heal."

"She did."

Aragorn turned to look at Faramir. A long time, or so it seemed, he held his eyes, searching, and Faramir met his gaze and held it. Aragorn smiled.

"It is good," he said.

Faramir did not answer, but he looked away. A strip of white cloth was bound around his arm.

"Why did you stay, Faramir?"

"To hold the enemy as long as I could, and give Éomer King time to escape. The vanguard arrived shortly after; the enemy would have given pursuit had Minas Tirith not been held. It was my duty to stay, and hers to leave."

Aragorn nodded and asked no more. He closed his eyes and lay resting for a time, but the smile was still on his lips. Faramir said nothing and for a while, the room was silent. No sound breached the walls, for a time they could forget. Forget the world outside; forget demands and sorrow and pain.

Except that they could not.

Aragorn's breaths were harsh and quick, even at rest. The air was rank, and outside the Enemy waited, secure in their defeat. And Aragorn had questions yet.

"Has the Mouth sent any troops in pursuit of Éomer?"

"No," Faramir answered. "All troops have been used to secure Gondor. Many of the men from the Southern Fiefdoms used the ships you brought up the Anduin to escape down the river again. They were to spread words of our defeat, and the coming threat. That fleet have disappeared, it seems. Many of the men have returned to their homes, but some must have fled further, out to the sea, or to seek safer harbour north along the coast. Dol Amroth was warned; the messengers and soldiers found the castle closed against them.

The Mouth sent Imrahil there– some weeks ago– to force the castle's surrender. I have not heard tidings of the siege yet, but the Mouth is impatient. If the sons of Imrahil fell at the Morannon…"

"They did," Aragorn said. "Or so I heard, but the Mouth also claimed that Éomer had been slain."

"They were not in King Éomer's company, and Imrahil believes them dead. One of the Swan-knights who did escape, claimed that he had seen them fall, protecting the body of their father. But King Éomer believed the Prince dead, and yourself as well."

"If any of them lived and had been captured, the Mouth of Sauron would have brought them with us, I believe. A surer coin to buy Dol Amroth than a king they do not know. And Lord Imrahil would have been told, if only to torment him." Aragorn shifted, before he stilled again.

"Alphros is the heir then, Elphir's son. He is but a child; the Enemy will want him to shape him for his rule, or end the line."

"His other sons fathered no children?" Aragorn asked.

"No," Faramir replied. "But Alphros is far too young to rule yet; unless they have escaped when the warning came, the people would see to the Lady Lothíriel. She is both brave, and strong of mind, but I would not have though she would hold out this long with her father held hostage against her.

"I surrendered far quicker."

Faramir fell quiet. Aragorn's breaths were short and shallow and he shivered, but he said nothing. He could feel Faramir shift beside him.

"Lord…"

Aragorn cut him off before he could say anything more. "What freedom do you have, Faramir?"

"Little," the answer came. "Guards follow all my movements, but I am not locked in. I am Steward still, in name, and am charged with the duties of that office, but it is the Mouth that gives orders. If I fail to obey…" He paused. Aragorn's breath came faster. Uneven. He gripped the hand Faramir offered him and held it until his breath evened again.

_Breathe in. Breathe out._

"You know."

Aragorn shook his head. "I know this part of it only," he said. "What is the other?"

"None, so far." Shadows flickered on Faramir's face, hiding his features.

"Faramir, you did not surrender for my sake alone."

Faramir did not answer. Silence filled the room, broken only by the rattle of chains. Aragorn turned his head to look at Faramir.

"Faramir."

His voice was hoarse and rasping, all gravel and deep earth. The name, whispered through walls and stone, echoed in Faramir's ears and tugged at the heartstrings of his soul. The memory of another darkness pressed around him, and at the voice of he who called him back, Faramir's resolve strengthened.

"You know the answer, sire."

"Do I, Steward?" The King's voice was stern, but not with anger. "Has my trust failed?"

More silence followed. Faramir moved, avoiding the King's eyes.

"So far no other consequences," Aragorn pressed. "But if you were to refuse now?"

"My guess," Faramir hesitated, "no – I do not guess, I know: the Mouth would rule himself, or appoint one of his captains should I refuse." He paused before he spoke again.

"I do not know whether my choices have been right."

Aragorn breathed, and some of the tension left him. "Choices," he said, and repeated the word. "Choices: you have some freedom then. You can still offer some protection to the people of Gondor."

"Did you not hear me, sire? I can do little; one step too far…"

"I will suffer, and if that does not help, you will be replaced. By one that will not do even little." He swallowed. "Faramir, you can slow evil; perhaps hinder that worse be done. Did you not surrender for this reason: that worse would not happen. Imrahil and I…"

"Would be dead had I not," Faramir interrupted.

"That is not the worse I speak of."

"I know." Faramir shook his head. "But it was what I could not bear."

"And this?" Aragorn asked. "Can you bear this again, if need be?"

"I do not know."

Neither had words to answer.

Faramir began to clean away what he could of the filth and stink. He worked in silence, and Aragorn did not speak for a while.

"Faramir," Aragorn said at length. "I claim no man's oath or obedience, but if you want my counsel then I say: better you than one of the enemy. You can hinder or delay the worst of the Enemy's demands, or try."

Faramir stopped his work. "Is that your wish?" he asked.

"I think it will be the lesser evil," Aragorn answered. "For the people of Gondor, if not for you."

"Not for you."

Aragorn shook his head. "I think yours will be the harder part." He sighed. "Faramir, I have been chained in the dark for two months …" he tugged at the chains; they rattled and did not budge. " … and three days. I cannot … " He swallowed.

"Sire," Faramir said.

"They have left you free to act. Do what you can."

"Sire, you will bear the brunt, and in the end it will make little difference."

"Give me purpose, Faramir. You cannot spare me pain."

Faramir hesitated. "And should the Enemy offer you the throne in more than name? Would you bear ruling as a vassal to the Shadow, my lord?"

Aragorn did not answer, could not answer. The Mouth's words rang in his mind: _Would mayhap a king do better?_ He repeated what he knew.

"Yours will be the harder part."

"Lord Elfstone…"

"Aragorn," Aragorn interrupted. "If I need be Elfstone to the people, let it be so, but that name is now a mockery. ' Aragorn' I was named at birth, and now that must sustain me."

"Lord, if I might delay evil, could not you do the same?"

"Would you have me?"

Faramir hesitated again. The chains rattled, and Aragorn gripped his hand again. Wordlessly he waited until the grip eased and the breaths softened, before he spoke:

"No, Lord Aragorn. You are right: my rule might be the lesser evil, but we do not know what demands the Enemy would place upon yours. But even if he would place no other demands on you, I would say no. I fear what despair would come upon Gondor should we have no hope to cling to. There will be mockery enough.

"Sire, I will obey you wish," he said. "But if you ask for purpose, let it be this: do not break, lest Gondor lose the last of her pride."

"Gondor knows me not, Faramir."

"Minas Tirith does, and you won her heart when you became a healer. You won the heart of those that followed you from the south, and their word will spread." Faramir paused once more. "Know you the story of Húrin, lord?"

"Need I ask which one?" Aragorn coughed, but Faramir did not answer. "His is not a happy one, Faramir."

"Nor are ours, lord. But it is said that rumours of his steadfastness, and refusal to bend to Morogth's will, spread among the slaves of Angband. Gondor will need a hope that will not bend."

Aragorn shuddered at Faramir's words. "And so your roles are already cast," he muttered. "May the end not follow the past: it as a fateful role you give me, Steward."

"You wished for purpose, lord."

"And yours is still the harder part; my duty and my will, shall be the same." Aragorn closed his eye. _At least I have no child._

"Then it is good, if any good can yet be had."

Aragorn nodded and said no more, but he smiled. Thin and wan his mouth was, and chapped from thirst. Almost Faramir was tempted to let him drink, despite the muddied water. But he did not. Faramir spoke instead, soft-voiced, telling of the City and the Mouth's orders. Aragorn was weary, and much of it he could not discern; he took comfort in the voice none the less, and the warmth of Faramir's body. In hands that were soft and light and words that did not mock.

…

"_The people of Gondor are stiff-necked, my Lord, and the fisher-folk of Dol Amroth more so," _the Lieutenant of Barad-dûr wrote._ "Their Prince leads them in this; he has refused to order their surrender, but his men falter and have grown reluctant to fight in the evidence of his torment. They will fall within the day. Still I deem that they will not bend easily to any ruler not of the House of Dol Amroth. Though Prince Imrahil has shown himself stubborn, it will be quicker to tame his people by breaking him to Your will, unless his heir or his daughter are still alive within the walls._

_I will therefore test whether his loyalty to Elessar runs deep enough to use. For this purpose he will be informed that Elessar will be whipped for his refusal. This will make no difference to Your plans for…" _

Here the letter breaks off. A part of the corner is missing, cutting the last word off at the letters '_th_'. We do not know how many pages are missing.

The siege of Dol Amroth was broken on the last day of May. If the Lieutenant judged the waning resistance of the people of Dol Amroth right, then the letter was written on the 29th of that month. Prince Imrahil returned on the eleventh of June.

But the whipping of the king Elessar occurred on the 27th, witnessed by the lord Faramir, the Haradrim healer, and the Lieutenant himself, and no record of a second whipping has been found, though the Prince bore witness that he saw the healing marks on the King's body when he was returned to Minas Tirith.

Some argue that the second whipping must have taken place without record, and with no healer present. Others, still believing that the Enemy would have risked two such harsh punishments being carried out within a fortnight, argue that the record must have been lost, for the Enemy had his servants record all their doings.

There are, however, those that hold that there was no second whipping. They argue that the servants of the Enemy repeatedly misjudged the resistance of the Free Peoples, thinking they would bend far quicker than they did. The Lieutenant of Barad-dûr, they argue, could simply have been mistaken, and the letter written earlier.

While the fragment gives no other clues as to its date, it is my belief that they are mistaken. Other papers where found with the fragment, and though it can not be shown for certain that they are part of the same letter, I believe they are. While none of these papers speak of events later than the end of May, in one the rapport of the healer is mentioned. In another, it is noted that the law of widows and unwed women, had been passed, and so it is my belief that the letter was written between the 28th and the end of May.

It should be remembered, however, that the Enemy lied and deceived, and none should doubt that his servant, his Mouth and Lieutenant, followed his master also in this.

…

Aragorn learned the full extent of Faramir's disobedience when the guards at length returned. Faramir heard them before they reached the cell. He fumbled with the blindfold but woke Aragorn before he did anything else.

"The guards are coming back," he said. "There is not much time."

Aragorn mumbled something, still drowsy.

"Sire, forgive me; I have to put it back on."

"What?" Aragorn asked, confused by pain and sleep.

"The blindfold," Faramir answered. "I must put it back on; I was forbidden to speak with you, or let you know that I was here. If they find …"

Aragorn nodded.

He could not see where Faramir had gone when the guards came. Their footsteps were loud and the noise hid any sound the Steward might have made. They said little. Two entered his cell, but there could have been more; Aragorn could not tell. But more than one pair of hands loosened his bonds and hauled him up so he was sitting. He was given water, and he drank as much as they allowed him. The food was harder to swallow; old, dry bread and some stale cheese that was hard to chew. He ate slowly.

Afterwards they chained him down again and left.

He lay silent, listening to their footsteps disappearing, trying to hear whether they all had truly left this time.

He heard nothing but his own breaths. Faramir did not return and he dared not speak to find out.

…

Faramir was careful thereafter. The White Three was burned at the Mouth's order, but the burned stump could not be dug out from the ground. It remained, barely visible; a symbol of Gondor's defeat.

…

* * *

...

**Warning: **torture.

**Notes on names and language:**

_Daro_: (Sindarin) Stop/halt

_"Aragorn I was named at birth":_ The only meaning of the name "Aragorn" that Tolkien has proposed, is "kingly valour". While it is not certain this was the final meaning, I have adopted it here. (See the foreword of HoME 12: _The Peoples of Middle-earth_)

**A/N**:

My thanks to the people on **The Garden of Ithilien** and my beta **JAUL** for help with this chapter. And also to my wonderful readers and reviewers: it is an immense help and inspiration to hear from you. Thank you! A special thanks to my anonymous reviewers, since I cannot PM you as I can the rest.

I have experimented a bit in this chapter, with the repetition of the quote: "The people of Gondor are stiff-necked" and I wonder if this was something that worked well or not. Too many repetitions? Didn't notice? Confusing standing alone like it did so many times? I would be very happy to hear your reactions (if you has any).


	8. The Memory of the Crowning of the King

**Notes:** see end of chapter.

_Disclaimer_: see first chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Seven: The Memory of the Crowing of the King.**

Of his crowning, the King Elessar never spoke.

It was an event well documented, and we have many eyewitnesses whose stories have been written down; the people of Gondor and the peoples of the Enemy both have given accounts, and I have elsewhere recounted the Steward's words.

But the king was silent, and he never broke that silence in voice or writing. Only to his closest, did he divulge some glimpse of that day, and even then, it was through his silence rather than his words that they could guess the pain of the memory.

But despite the numerous accounts, only one has survived to tell us of what happened to the king outside the eyes of the crowd: the report written by the healer that tended the king.

"_The second time I was called to oversee Elessar's torment, was on the eve of the coronation. The call came from the Lord's Mouth – I was shown his tokens – but the Mouth was not present himself. The prisoner had been moved from his prison to the guardhouse at the Gate earlier that day, but when I arrived at the Gate, he had already been moved to the orc-camp outside the City._

_The Orcs had not been allowed inside the Gate since the Steward surrendered; only the Men in the service of the Great Lord dwelled within the City. But this night many Men were present in the orcs' camp; no doubt the Mouth wanted to ensure that no attempt of rescue or escape would succeed. _

_I arrived to find the torment already begun._

_The prisoner was standing in a circle of Orcs and Men. He was bound with rope sent spinning from man to orc to man. None seemed to be in charge._

_The prisoner stumbled and fell several times, for his foot-chains were short, and each time he struggled to regain his feet. The orcs' encouragements did not aid his efforts, and the sound of their jeers were deafening. The men were hardly any quieter. _

_At his fifth fall, the prisoner was unable to rise again. Then I found that captain Nagid was in charge; he ordered the crowd back and called for me. I had held myself ready to stop the proceedings if I deemed it necessary, and I therefore reached them quickly._

_The prisoner was blindfolded with a simple black cloth and gagged with a thin gag of iron. It was of the kind that traps the tongue so that the wearer cannot speak, but it does not muffle sound. I asked that it be removed, for the prisoner was bleeding from the mouth. The captain relented at length, for the Mouth's orders were very clear: no lasting damage, or too severe. The prisoner was to be able to stand come morning._

_The gag was sharp and spiked. It took time to verify that the bleeding only came from the pierced tongue, for the wound was bleeding freely and the prisoner did not cooperate. This surprised me, for on other occasions he had not resisted my treatments, and, after more than two months as a prisoner, he should not have the spirit to resist so. His strength speaks of the Great Lord's mercy to his conquered foes._

_I was, in the end, able to confirm that the bleeding came only from the wound in the prisoner's mouth, and that he was fit enough to continue. His ribs, however, were bruised if not cracked, and I advised that no further beatings be administered; I feared it would cause too severe damage. Captain Nagid listened to my advice. When he ordered the torment to continue, they used the Umbar ropes._

_Because of the great strain the ropes places upon the arms and shoulders, I made sure that the prisoner was not left hanging for too long. Often damage will occur even though no visible marks are left on the body, and to avoid this, I took great care to ensure that the prisoner was allowed frequent rests._

_Each time he was re-hung, the prisoner weakened a little, but he made few sounds. This made it harder for me to judge his true strength. Perhaps he was stronger than most men I have known; he bore the torment well and I did not see the signs of danger before it was too late._

_In truth, there were no signs to see, as often is the case with the ropes. The fourth time the prisoner was hoisted into the air, he screamed for his shoulders had been pulled from their place._

_I called for the prisoner to be lowered to the ground and the torment to end. The orcs were most displeased by this, but Captain Nagid heeded my advice and I was able to reset the shoulders. They should heal with little lasting harm._

_The prisoner was awake and aware through the whole."_

…

After the healer had treated the prisoner, Captain Nagid asked him to join his wake. This the healer gladly accepted, for he was flattered that the captain should wish for his company. They stayed within sight of the prisoner, and it may be that the captain was less interested in the company of the healer, and more in keeping him close should there be any complications.

The prisoner was kept kneeling, and a guard of Orcs and Men were sat on him.

"You need not fear his escape, captain," the healer commented when he saw this. "I do not end a torment before there is need."

Captain Nagid did not answer at first. A cup of wine had been fetched for him and the healer, and the captain swirled the wine in his cup. He brought it to his nose and drew in the scent of it.

"This is a fine wine," he said. He sipped and let it linger on the tongue before he swallowed. "A gift from the Great Lord's servant to reward my humble service: my zealous dedication to the Great Lord's will. By my hand this brigand was brought down, and by my vigilance he has been kept. I will not let that vigilance slip so close to the end."

The healer nodded, and did not gainsay the captain. "And what will you do, captain, when the end is past? Surely the Great Lord's reward will be generous."

"I will go where the Great Lord orders," Captain Nagid said. "After tomorrow the Lord's servant will no longer need the hostages, and I will be allowed in the Great Lord's presence. No greater reward can I wish for."

"No greater reward is there," the healer agreed. "My own hopes are more modest: to return to my home, to the house of my father and the arms of my wife. To see again the colours of the sand and the wealth of the water holes. This land, for all the rivers and grass, do not suit me. Its people are ghosts, and they live without shame."

Captain Nagid swirled his cup once more. His eyes were on his captive, attentive to each expression and movement. Elessar would falter, falling forwards, and the guards would pull him back. He would sink back to sit on his heels, and the guards would pull him up to kneel properly. And their dance would start over.

The captain sipped his wine. "Some of the people have too much pride," he said. "They do not know when to bend." The prisoner swayed. He coughed, and blood fell from his mouth. Nagid turned to the healer.

"The southern shores of this land has a beauty unlike the dry lands of the sun," he said, "though their fishermen are unruly. If the Great Lord wishes, I shall make my home where the cliffs fall into the sea, until the Sea-Prince is broken to his will. Or even after." And in the corner of his eye, he noticed Elessar startle.

The healer answered with words of flattery, but it was not from those that Nagid smiled. He drained his cup and held it out to be filled anew. The camp around them was filled with laughter and song, in which the voices of Orcs and Men blended together. Elessar faltered again, and this time he hung slumped between the guards when they pulled him back. Nagid wondered if the healer would speak up, but the healer said nothing. The prisoner was still aware, that much Nagid could see, but it was clear that he could no longer hold himself up.

"The men are joyous." The healer strove to find some topic that would fill the silence of the captain, since his compliments earned him no favour.

"They have good reason," the captain answered. He smiled at the healer. "But I think we have neglected the guest of honour."

Nagid rose. Two steps brought him to the side of Elessar and he knelt down beside him. In his hand was still the cup of wine, newly filled. He swirled the wine under the captive's nose, and saw him smell it. Elessar swallowed at the scent, but he said nothing.

"Your brigand days have ended," Nagid told him. "You should join in our toast, Elessar." And he gave him of the wine to drink.

The taste of the wine lingered in the king's mouth onto the next day.

…

"The King will leave today."

Faramir stood just inside the door. Imrahil was reminded of one day, too many years ago, when a young boy stood like that, just inside the door of his chamber, afraid to intrude, but needing to speak with his uncle. But the boy was grown, and Faramir should not have needed him now.

"Even if I had not already been told, I would have guessed it," Imrahil said.

"He is strong." Faramir spoke with hesitation in his voice. "His will is unbent, even now."

Imrahil did not answer, and Faramir spoke again.

"Unlike me, he will not bow. I did not think, uncle, when I took up the Rod, that I would crown my King on the demand of Mordor, nor that I would bow to the Enemy and live. But he, mocked and humiliated, would not bend. I saw it in his eyes, his stance; that was my King, as noble and strong as my dreams could have made him."

At the furthest corner of the cell, light fell down from a high window. Imrahil stood underneath it and his face and head was lit by it. He turned his face up; from where he stood, he could see a glimpse of the sky. Grey clouds covered it, and the air that drifted down smelled of rain. He beckoned Faramir, and the Steward came, so like and unlike the boy from all those years ago.

"The sun shone yesterday," Imrahil said.

"Do you think me weak, uncle, that I weep to see him go?"

Imrahil turned towards his nephew. "It will rain today," he said. "The sun will weep."

He paused; a moment only, then spoke again. "I will leave as well. If not today, I will yet leave soon and follow our King."

"And you, uncle, will you bend?"

Imrahil shook his head, but he said: "I do not know. In the end all men must bend, or be crushed. I do not know what choice will be left me." And it seemed to Imrahil that his own voice shook, as if he had already been broken. "I do not know what choice I would make, were I free to choose."

"And do you think me weak, Prince of Dol Amroth," Faramir asked. "That I have already bowed?"

"In Dol Amroth," Imrahil said, "there is a place where the cliffs rise steep up from the sea. The wind is harsh there, and the water churns white even on a quiet day. On the top of the outermost cliff, a birch grows. Small it is, bent and crooked like unto some tormented creature, pitiful and strange. No storm has torn it down; its roots cling to the bare rock and will not let go, however low the wind bend its trunk.

"The strong oaks, tall and unbending, would never have weathered one winter-storm upon that cliff."

"Just of little understanding, then," Faramir answered. "A simple 'yes' or 'no' would have sufficed."

Imrahil smiled – he had not thought that even now he could smile as if nothing had changed – and he answered: "If you had a fault, son of Denethor, it was not of too little understanding." He paused, and grew grave once more.

"Have you spoken with the King?" he asked.

"Yes," Faramir answered. "Once, weeks ago."

"What did he say?"

Faramir turned to gaze up toward the patch of sky. As he stood there, the sky darkened and heavy drops of rain began to fall. Imrahil waited, and the bars of the window grew wet with rain while Faramir stood silent.

"He asked me to do what I could to protect Gondor, even if it was just a little. To rule as his Steward for as long as I could bear. He told me to be the lesser evil.

"He said my part was the harder."

The raindrops fell faster, until they could hear its drumming against stone.

"Did you not believe him, Steward of Gondor?" Imrahil asked. "Did you not believe him, that you would ask me about your strength?"

Faramir did not answer.

"This is no time for self-pity, Faramir."

"No," Faramir answered. "And I do not wallow in it."

"Self-reproach, then."

Faramir smiled. It was not a happy smile, but Imrahil took heart to see it nonetheless.

"What time, if not this?" Faramir asked, but his shoulders straightened and he seemed lighter, as if touched by some happy memory. "Still, though I may doubt my own strength, I will trust in his. His, and the strength of Éomer king: that those who have not yet fallen will find green grass un-shadowed by the evil we must endure. And as long as he will remain, un-broken, I will not utterly despair."

Imrahil nodded; there were no more words he could say. They watched the rain, side by side, until the Steward was called away.

…

The rain fell, cold and unrelenting, for more than a month. The farmers feared for their crops, late in sowing, for the sun seemed to them weak and cold, and the rain turned many of the fields into mud where even grass grew slowly. It was the first of many summers with little growth, and it was later taken as an evil omen that the rain should begin on the day when the King was brought to Mordor, away from the land.

At the time, however, the rain was welcome, for little had fallen during the darkness, and what had fallen, had been full of ashes. And so it was that Aragorn left in the cleansing rain of mid-summer.

He welcomed it. His hands were bound, but his eyes were free, he was on horseback, and a cloak had been slung around him against the rain. His head was bare, and he turned his face towards the sky and let the water fall on his skin and soothe it.

The people of the City hid inside; the streets were almost empty but for those that had to brave the rain. _They_ hurried from doorway to doorway, to keep dry. At the third level, a group of children were playing in the puddles. They scattered before the soldiers. One of them caught the King's eye and stood staring at the side of the road while all its playmates fled.

It was a small child, too small to tell whether it was a boy or a girl, but Aragorn saw that a light shone in its eye. He held its gaze and smiled at the child as they rode past, twisting to look until the Road turned. When he turned back, he noticed for the first time that the windows of the houses were covered with black cloth, and on the sills, the people had put white flowers.

…

...

...

* * *

**Endnotes**

An account of the coronation can be found at the end of the first chapter of the first book: _WGGG I: We May Yet Stand._ Those that have not read the first book, might want to read that chapter. Faramir's account is given there, as well as a narration of the day itself.

I am aware that this chapter is shorter than my usual fare, but… well… it could not have ended at a later point. My thanks, as always, to the people on **The Garden of Ithilien** and my beta **JAUL**. Also a thanks to **Linda Hoyland** for catching some typos that managed to slip past. They are fixed now.

I also want to thank all my reviewers and readers: knowing you are there and reading is a great encouragement. For those of you that have pointed out flaws, whether great or small, in my writing: and extra thanks. I may not have had time to fix all typos or other issues yet, but I will.

I have, due to RL-issues, sadly lost the buffer I originally had for my chapters. I hope to regain it, but it means that while the next chapter is roughly written, the following chapters are less clear. I hope I will be able to keep my schedule of monthly postings despite this, and will let you know if that changes.


	9. Returning Strength

_Disclaimer_: see first chapter

* * *

**Returning Strength **

It would be many years until the King was seen in Gondor again.

Elessar and Prince Imrahil were taken across the river, and further, even to the Tower of Bara-dûr itself. Bitter is that road, and the dust of that land dries the mouth. But the end of that road is more bitter still, and those that must endure it, pray that the end will not come. The very earth would cry out in fear, had it not long been silenced by the evil of that land; the evil that spread like rings in the water from the Dark Tower where the Dark Lord sat.

The hall of the Dark Lord rivalled the great caves of the Dwarrowdelf, Moria the dark, and no building of Man could equal it. The vaults were hidden in shadow, and shadows clung to the wall. So immense was the structure that even a great number of people seemed no more than a handful, skulking in the shades.

Sauron alone towered in that hall, a darkness deeper than shadows, dwarfing all others. It is told that when the King Elessar was brought before his throne, the King stood pale and unbended, withstanding the first onslaught of his will. The King's eyes burned, but he did not look at the throne.

And the Shadow, it is said, struck the King to the ground and burned him, for no other way could he make Elessar bend. And it is further said that the King defied the Shadow, swearing that he would never willingly serve Mordor.

In answer to his defiance, Sauron in turn swore that the Lord Elessar one day would bend and willingly give his allegiance.

…

East of Bara-dûr, several days of travel across the Gorgororth, a branch of the Ash Mountains breaks off from the chain that marks the northern border of Mordor. It travels south and west to hem in the table-plain. At the root of one of the peaks, iron was to be found, and a mine lay there where the slaves of Mordor toiled.

In this mine worked many of the men captured in the Battle of the Black Gate, brought there to toil in the darkness until their strength broke, or old age made them feeble. There the slaves of Mordor became one, for the low tunnels bent the back of the tallest Man and the dirt of the work covered their hair and their skin. Born slaves or captives: they all became one, lost in the darkness that melts all differences, until the final equaliser, Death, released them. Few could remember themselves in that darkness, and those that did either died quickly or lingered long, according to their strength.

…

"Guards!"

Haldor was on the brink of sleep, but the shout woke him. Straightaway he was on his feet, but a hand pushed him back. He looked up, and the man put more pressure on him to keep him still.

"We need you whole, and you know it, Haldor."

Haldor knew. The wall was cold against his back, but smooth and even. It was too dark to see faces; they had put out the lights for the night in their corner of the cave.

"Taddal."

"Yes."

"You are unhurt; take Badhor and Durion with you and see why the guards come. They might bring something useful."

It was too soon for the guard to fetch them for work; too soon for them to bring … anything good. They both knew, but sometimes, sometimes it was worth the risk.

Taddal nodded. "As long as you stay here, Captain. At least until we know."

"Be careful."

Taddal nodded again, then he was away, the other two following. Haldor watched them, but their corner was too far from the door to see clearly. Safer, but a disadvantage should the guards bring food or other supplies.

Haldor could see his men — for they were his now — reach the door before it opened. Faron had sent many; the weaker pushed in front of the stronger.

They waited, in part hoping that the guards would pass their cell by.

They did not.

The door unlocked. Only the two Rangers, standing closest to the door, held their ground. The rest scrambled back.

A Man, flung in by the guards, crashed into Taddal, the closest of the two, taking him down with him.

"Be sure to treat him royally!"

The guards did not enter, they just laughed, closed the door, and locked it. Faron's men moved in on the new man, still on the ground.

"Dúnedain!"

Haldor snapped the command. Quickly the Rangers moved, Haldor leading them. He could not see Taddal, who was taller than any of Faron's men: he was still down, vulnerable. He could only see Badhor and Durion, trying to break through the ring of men. Haldor swore. They knew better; alone they could not hope to do more than be hurt with Taddal. And too many of the Rangers knew hurt.

Badhor turned.

"Haldor!" he called. "Quick! It's the Chieftain."

…

From the records of the mine we know that the King must have been kept for about three months in the Dark Tower, a time he seldom spoke of. On the entry for the 30th of September, the record says:

"_The blessed servant of the Great Lord – may His fire ever light our paths – honoured me greatly: Into my keeping he gave the hostage of our Lord – may His fire always guide me – the king of the sea-devils: Elessar of Gondor. And His servant blessed me with a taste of His most holy presence; I was shaking with fear and awe long after the servant left me. _

"_The Lord's – His name be blessed – servant also charged me to follow His instructions of the treatment of the hostage. And I will not disappoint the Great Lord – may His fire reach to the ends of the world."_

It is clear from the record that Commander Apam, a captain from beyond the Sea of Rhûn, wrote this shortly after the Nazgûl left. The next entry, directly below, is from later on the same day:

"_The Lord – blessed is His guidance – in His wisdom had marked His hostage with His sign. I therefore anticipated no problems with the guards. My mistake — for which I will take full responsibility — was that I did not consider the stupidity of the orcs._

"_I reprimanded Captain Gorgol, and let him deal with his men as he saw fit. He did so with the efficiency – and brutality – of his kind. I considered their punishment a little too severe, since I interrupted them before they had had time to harm the hostage gravely. Still, it will discourage further incidence, and orcs are easily replaced._

_I also ordered the hostage's clothes to be cut, so that the mark can be clearly seen at all times, that no further misunderstandings may occur._

"_In accordance to the Great Lord's instruction, the hostage was brought to the sixth cave. As we have yet to receive a replacement for our lost healer, the foresight of our Lord — wise beyond measure is He — is most fortunate: among the Northern workers there are less illness, and they recover quicker, and more often, from discipline than the rest. At least one of them must know something of healing."_

...

The Rangers did not stop. They pressed forward, breaking through the rank of Faron's men, driving them back. Their faces were grim, and they would not be denied. They cleared the space around the two men, and let Haldor through, but held all others back. One, Haldor did not notice whom, had brought light.

Taddal covered a body with his own, but at Haldor's word he rolled quickly off, and knelt beside it on the floor.

Beside him, their Chieftain had curled up. He wore chains on his hands as well as his feet, and he was blindfolded, but Haldor knew him. All the Rangers did.

He, it seemed, did not know them.

Taddal tried to reach him, but he twisted away from him and Taddal seemed frightened by his reactions. It was not until Haldor ordered him to hold their Chieftain still, that Taddal finally managed, and Haldor was able to slip the blindfold off.

"Aragorn," he said. "Chieftain."

And it was at the speaking of his name that Aragorn calmed. He blinked against the light and reached for Haldor.

"It is I, Haldor," Haldor said. "And Taddal is here, and Badhor, and others of your men beside."

Aragorn swallowed, but did not speak at first. His mouth was bloody and there was a swelling underneath one eye that told Haldor it would blacken soon. The front of his shirt was torn, or cut, and on his breast-bone…

Haldor cursed.

On Aragorn's breast, just under the collarbone, the Eye was burnt into the skin. Red and ugly, no more than seven days old. Haldor froze to see the mark. His hands hovered above the blistered skin, but he dared not touch it lest he cause more pain.

Aragorn squinted against the light, but when he saw where Haldor looked, he flinched, and his grip on Haldor's arm tightened.

"Haldor?"

The Chieftain spoke like one who has been silent long. He blinked again.

"Yes."

Around them the Rangers stood, shoulder by shoulder. They kept the other prisoners at bay, and Haldor heard at the edge of his mind one of them say:

"You will not touch him."

Haldor did not hear an answer. The cave was quiet, but he paid it no attention. Let the other Rangers handle it.

"Chieftain, can you walk?"

"Yes, I was but stunned from the fall. Just help me stand."

He reached with both hands, the chains not quite long enough for him to move with ease. He swayed a little when they helped him to his feet, and he was lighter than Haldor expected. His hair, Haldor noted, had been cut, but was now regrown. He was thin, as if recovering from some illness, and above his blackening eye, there was a new scar. He bled from the corner of his mouth.

"Chieftain, are you…?"

"Well? No, but I am mostly unharmed."

But he did not protest when Haldor took his arm and helped him to their corner. The other Rangers surrounded them, and cleared the way. The other prisoners were quiet, hovering outside the circle of Rangers. Even Faron's men parted before them; vary of provoking the grim men who had shown themselves ruthless in the protection of their own. But their eyes followed them.

"Are all new prisoners greeted so?" the Chieftain asked.

"Largely," Haldor answered. "Not the silence, though."

"Or the restraint."

Taddal spoke under his breath, but Haldor heard him. The Chieftain made a sound, but Haldor could not make it out. Shadows and torchlight flickered across his face. Haldor studied him, leaving all worry about the cave to the men. The Chieftain walked as if he could not trust to his eyes, and though he held himself straight, he seemed to Haldor stiff, as if he forced himself to hold so. He had not stopped to wipe the blood from his mouth.

"Chieft…"

"Not now, Haldor."

"We are here."

The Rangers parted. Before them lay what looked like a smaller cave within the larger. The entrance too wide to be called a door, but the walls had narrowed to make a room of sort. A room with more protection than even Faron's corner had. Aragorn halted for a moment.

"I hope there is a bed waiting for me in there."

"A place to sleep," Taddal answered. "I would not honour it with the name of bed."

"Is it flat, with no gravel or sharp stones stuck to it?

Something flickered across his face; Haldor could not make out the Chieftain's expression.

"There is straw," he answered.

"Such overwhelming hospitality." — did the Chieftain smile? — "It will turn me soft in my old age."

Haldor did not know what to answer. "Come," he said, and led the way to the back of their cave. "Sit, Chieftain, and let me see your wounds."

Aragorn sat, but he shook his head at Haldor's words. "When did you become a healer?" he asked. "I _know_ I have men more skilled than you, Haldor."

"Not here. Not since Rhíhul died," Haldor replied. "The tunnel caved in about a week ago and he was caught under the stone. I am the closest we have, now, and it is more than others have." He paused. "I promise to treat your hurts after your orders, Chieftain, but you cannot heal yourself."

"My hurts are slight," Aragorn said. "Or such that you cannot treat. Not here, not without … anything. Mostly I need rest." He had closed his eyes, but Haldor did not think it was in pain.

"That … burn is not slight," Haldor said.

"And what have you to treat it with?"

Haldor had nothing, and Aragorn knew it.

"Even so," Haldor said, "let me see. When last any of us saw you … We did not dare hope to set eyes on you again. We need to know: what has been done to you?"

"No," Aragorn said. His voice was stern. "You cannot change what is in the past, and do but little to hinder anything Sauron" – he stumbled on the name, but spoke it – "might do in the future. Knowing will not help."

"Forgive me, lord." Haldor would gladly have withdrawn, but there were no others. Not here. Not now. "I sought but to ease our fear, which make the terror greater than knowledge will show. You look more hale than fear dared hope, and yet…" Haldor hesitated. "And yet we know, and therefore fear, what the guards might do. When we heard them coming, we feared they had come for one of us. We know what they do to those they take, and what state they are in, those that come back after the guards have entertained themselves. And what they do to new men. We…"

"They hardly touched me," Aragorn interrupted. "Their commander stopped them. I may have a bruised rib or two, but no other hidden injury." He laughed, but there was no humour in it. "The Enemy, it seems, has marked me. I am not to be touched." He gestured to the mark, and then paused.

"But I have walked for many days with little rest," he continued. "In the company of orcs and a _Nazgûl_. I may be unhurt in body, but I am weary. Too weary for tales."

"Let me at least wipe the blood from your face, before it dries. And though we have little with which to treat the burn, we have clean water, and some cloth with which to bind up wounds."

The Chieftain nodded his consent. "I had forgotten it," he said. His words slurred a little and he had closed his eyes. "Now that you mention it, it does itch." But he did not raise his hands to scratch, or check the wound on his lip. The skin around his eye was darkening already, and was almost swollen shut.

Durion approached them. He walked with a limp from the tangle with Faron's men, but he carried what little Rhíhul had gathered to help ease their hurts, before they lost him.

"I have his food-token as well," he said. He was speaking in a low voice, as if he feared to intrude. "One of Faron's men had gotten hold of it, but he dropped it when you came."

Haldor nodded. "Guard it for now," he said.

Aragorn had closed his eyes again, and Haldor could not tell if he heard them. He took the bag from Durion with a whispered "stay!" The Chieftain did not move or open an eye, but he asked:

"What do you have?"

"Not much, Chieftain," Haldor answered. "Scraps of cloth, mostly. Some of that salve the orcs use; Rhíhul did not like to use it, but he said it was better than nothing. One needle — I think Rhíhul managed to steal it from the healer they used to have here. A small piece of soap…"

The Chieftain held out his hand, but he still had not opened his eyes. Haldor gave him the bag.

"We have some food and water."

Aragorn had opened his eyes and rummaged through the bag. He only grunted in reply to Haldor's words.

"Not much, we only took for nine, but if you are hungry…?"

"It would do me little good right now," Aragorn answered, "but if the water is clean…"

"Clean enough, though we boil it before we drink. Rhíhul always insisted."

"Good."

Aragorn handed back the bag. He had kept a flat, smooth stone that Haldor never understood why was there. The Chieftain held it to his swollen eye.

"There is nothing that would help against such hurts I have," he said.

"The salve…"

"I have had enough of orcs and their salves."

The Chieftain's voice was sharp, and brooked no disagreement. Haldor did not argue. But he helped him drink when water came, and the Chieftain let him wash away the blood. Haldor felt him flinch under his hands, and he followed Haldor's movements with his good eye. His breath was even and measured, breathing in and out. He said nothing while Haldor worked, and it was not until Haldor put the water and cloth away, that the Chieftain let his eyes slide shut again.

"Chieftain?"

"I need rest, Haldor." Aragorn let his hand fall. For a moment Haldor thought he had fallen asleep sitting, but he opened his eye and handed Haldor the stone to put back in the bag. "For the first time since our capture, I can sleep safely." His eyes slid shut again, and Haldor nodded even though his Chieftain could not see it "The tales can wait till morning."

With the help of Durion, Haldor eased the Chieftain down until he lay on the straw. He gestured Durion to lie down as well. The Chieftain stirred to feel the body close to his.

"Sleep safely, Chieftain. 'tis but Durion: we sleep back to back for warmth. And safety, though none will come upon you unawares: we will keep watch. If you… ?"

"No," Aragorn answered. "I… I am not used to company, and was but startled. The last ti–" he stopped himself. "I might dream."

"We all do." Haldor saw that the Chieftain was still tense. "You are back with us, Chieftain, and we will give our lives for you."

"I know."

But the Chieftain did not relax, though his words were slow and full of sleep. He moved a little, and Durion lay still, as if frightened to move.

"How many survived?" Aragorn asked.

"Twelve survived the battle, that I know of," Haldor answered. "Only nine are left."

Aragorn nodded, but did not speak again. Haldor watched his body unclench, and his breath evened and grew deep and slow. And still Durion lay unmoving beside him.

"Sleep, Durion," Haldor said. "You, too, need the rest."

"What about Taddal?"

"I will see to him, but he, unlike you, does not limp." Haldor rose. "I leave the food and water: if he wakes…"

Durion nodded. "How much?"

Haldor hesitated. One more mouth. They had never taken more than they needed, and apart from the morning meal, no more food would come for days.

"As much as he needs. We will make due."

He left them and joined Taddal at the opening of the cave.

"How is he?"

The cave outside was quiet, but not with sleep. In Faron's corner, at the other side of the cave, light burned. It was the only light except for the Rangers'.

"He sleeps."

"Is that wise?" Taddal asked. "I saw the bruise on his face."

"I think so," Haldor answered. "He would have said otherwise."

In the silence, they could hear murmur from Faron's corner, but no words carried over to them. The Rangers were quiet, but only Durion and the Chieftain slept. Both Haldor and Taddal spoke in low voices.

"Did he say anything?"

"No, we will have to wait for the tale."

"It will not be good."

"No." They both knew it could not, even if the Chieftain was mostly unhurt in body. "I ordered Durion to sleep by him. He limped but I do not think he has other hurts. How fare you, Taddal? You must have taken the brunt."

"Not I: Durion did. I am well enough; most of my bruises are from the Chieftain, not Faron's men. They wanted his token, and his boots, no more, I guess. Though they might take a keener interest now." Taddal lowered his voice further. "We are watched."

Haldor glanced up at Faron's corner. There were movement among the light, but he would have men closer by. And there were others.

"I want two men at guard throughout the night," he ordered. "Let Durion sleep, but the rest of us shall take at least one turn. Let the men get as much sleep as they can between watches." Haldor knew the others heard him, yet none of them lay down. A few sat when Haldor glared at them.

"It is already done. Belith will join me soon."

Haldor nodded. "Which watch have you set me?"

"You will be busy elsewhere."

Taddal nodded towards a shadow halfway across the cave. Something stirred there, and a man stepped out and approached the Rangers. In the darkness of the cave he was a mere shadow himself. His gait was even, and his shoulders straight. He did not try to hide his path. They all saw him, and those that sat, rose, and all the Rangers joined Haldor and Taddal at the mouth of the cave.

A wall of Rangers met the man, and he stopped two steps away from it, inside the light from one of the torches. The torch burned steady, and though parts of his face were in shadow, Haldor knew him.

"What do you want, Thalion? Or are you running Faron's errands now?"

"You have taken in an outsider, Haldor," Thalion answered. "And shown your strength."

"We have before." Haldor's voice was short and clipped.

"Not like this, and not since Belith. Questions are asked."

"The Dúnedain might be few in the North, but we are more than a few handfuls."

They both stared at each other in silence. It was Haldor who broke it.

"You did not answer my question, Thalion. Are you running Faron's errands?"

"Faron knows you are less likely to answer one of his men, but you know I follow no man here."

"Not entirely by choice."

"Faron would welcome me."

It was true, yet Haldor did not trust him.

"Who is he?"

"Dúnadan. Both you and Faron know what lengths we will go to protect our own."

"I heard the guards. 'Royal' they said." Thalion held out his hands. "I mean no harm, as you should know."

Haldor nodded, but neither he nor the Rangers relaxed their stance. "Trust is too great a risk."

"At times it is," Thalion agreed. "Yet risk the tale, if nothing else."

Haldor did not answer. Behind him, the wall of Rangers closed further.

Thalion nodded as if a guess had been proved. "Trust begets trust," he said. "Too long have we lived apart, each man for himself, except for you. And because of you, this cave has less deaths and less illness. If my guess is right, _he_ might change the way we all live: no longer apart, but all as you. You can ease that path, or block it at the beginning."

Haldor still did not answer. He could feel the cave breathing, awake and listening for his answer.

"What do you fear?" Thalion asked, but Haldor had no words.

"I fought at the Gate. I saw the promised King there, at a distance, clad in battle-gear. I was taken defending my fallen lord, or I would have joined the King's desperate charge. Do not keep to yourself a hope that may carry us all, Ranger."

Still Haldor said nothing, and the Rangers at his back were a silent promise. Thalion looked at them. They were grim, and their resolve was set. He turned back and let Haldor catch his eyes again. Long they stared at each other.

It was Thalion who broke the stare. He bowed. "You will sleep in safety tonight."

"What power have you to promise this?"

Thalion laughed. "Less than I wish," he admitted, "but more than you think. There are those who would follow my lead."

Haldor did not answer him, but he nodded. "Taddal," he said, holding Thalion's eyes.

"Captain."

"One-man watches throughout the night."

"Captain?"

"You and I will sleep here, to be woken should any approach."

Haldor did not turn away from Thalion to see Taddal nod, but Thalion saw. He bowed again, and turned to leave, but stopped and twisted back to once more look at Haldor. "We are honoured."

He said no more. He walked back, and Haldor saw men step out from the shadow Thalion had come from. They spread at Thalion's word, but one — Haldor thought he recognised one of Faron's men — nodded his head towards the far corner where there still was light.

"Stay with Belith on the first watch," Haldor told Taddal. "And wake me if any draws near. If he keeps his word, reduce the watch: we all need to be rested come morning."

"He guessed."

"Yes, and Faron will question him. But Thalion have no love for Faron; he was a knight of Dol Amroth."

"I do not trust him, and neither do you."

"You know why better than most. But we are Dúnedain, and our strength has returned."

…

…

* * *

**Notes on names**:

The Ranger's names are made with the help of the Sindarin name frame on elffetish dot com.

**Gorgol** is an Orcish name taken from The Lay of Lethian (The Lays of Beleriand, HoME 3)

**Apam** is from Old Turkish.

…

**A/N**: Again my thanks go to the people on **The Garden of Ithilien** and my beta **JAUL**. Any remaining faults are entirely my own.

Also thanks to **The Lauderdale** for help with naming the Orc-captain: I am not very versed in things orcish, so it was a great help to have a sounding-board.

And last but not least: a great thanks to all of you reading, following and reviewing my story: you are a great encouragement to me.

Again, my posting-schedule might be delayed somewhat, because the next chapters need some rewriting: later chapters have developed in a way that makes it necessary. But I will post before the end of February at the latest.

Also: If you have left a signed review and not heard back from me yet: I am sorry. I have a bit of a back-log, but will come around to answering all eventually.

I have gotten an account on deniantArt and have posted bigger versions of my covers there. I will be putting a link in my profile if anyone would want to look.


	10. The Remnant

_Disclaimer_: See first chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Nine: The Remnant.**

"You cannot keep him to yourself."

"No?"

There was a pause. Aragorn was heavy with sleep, the world of dreams no yet melted into the waking world.

"You have not the right, and you may not even have the strength."

Voices… Who were speaking? Warmth against his back. The rise and fall of slow breaths. Bodies around him, and voices. People.

"Test us, and you shall find neither lacking. We guarded him for many years, and his father, and his fathers before that. Do not speak to us about 'right', you who disallowed his longfather."

"Yet he it was who brought the claim. Would you disallow it now?"

He knew the second voice, though distorted by suppressed anger. The name eluded him, but… voices. And warm, breathing bodies around him. When had he last woken with the warmth of the living around him?

"Haldor."

A new voice, but yes: Haldor was the voice he knew. He moved, and the warmth behind him stiffened and sat up.

"Haldor!"

He knew the other voice too, but the name slipped him, buried in the fog of recline.

"He is waking."

The quarrel stopped. Movements and feet around him. Despite the knowledge at the edge of his mind, he curled in on himself. The warmth was gone. A hand, light and gentle, touched his shoulder. He flinched from it, startled by memories.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

The chains of his manacles rattled as he rolled. Cool, hard stone against his back. He squinted through his good eye, hands raised to cover his face.

"Chieftain? Aragorn?"

Haldor's voice.

"Easy, Chieftain. We are your men."

And they were. The Dúnedain. The fog broke, and Aragorn could have wept. He un-tensed and his hands fell. "Haldor," he mumbled. He looked more clearly at Haldor. The man was worried. "I am unused to company," he said. A poor answer, but he had no other.

"There will soon be more," Haldor answered.

Torches and lamps were lit throughout the cave, and the sound of many men could be heard, even to their corner.

"How many?"

"We are fifty in this cell, more or less," Haldor answered, "but more toil in the mine. I do not know how many: at least three more cells break their fast with us, but I guess there are more. The mine is vast."

Aragorn nodded.

"The guards will soon come to take us to the morning meal, and then to work. But we have food here, if you wish…"

The last hung in the air, more question than statement. _Do you need it? Have you been fed?_

"I can wait." Aragorn answered both the spoken and unspoken questions. Haldor nodded, and ordered Durion, who hovered beside him, to hide the food and water. The young man bowed, and was off. Aragorn watched him go.

"Chieftain—" Haldor began, but he was interrupted by the shouts of "_Guards!"_ The sounds in the cave grew.

Men scrambled to their feet, and the flicker of haste and fear spread through the cave. Haldor rose.

"Chieftain, can you stand?"

Aragorn took the offered hand in reply. His body was stiff, but movement would help rid him of it. The Rangers flocked around him, as they had done the night before.

"Keep close to us." Haldor spoke quickly. "The guards are … easily bored, but at meal-time the other captives pose a greater threat."

"There is not enough food." Aragorn did not need to ask. He let his men herd him out of their room and into the larger cave. A man exchanged glances with Haldor, and a nod, and around the Rangers, more men gathered, taking their places as if trained. Haldor offered nothing to explain.

"We are given one meal a day," he answered Aragorn's statement instead. "One meal, which the guards are supposed to see to that we all eat. Thus we starve more slowly." Haldor reached inside his shirt and brought out a round, wooden disk hanging from a string. "Durion saved it for you. No token, no food. We are given one serving, but the guards are often blind. They check the tokens, not the faces." Aragorn took the disk, and Haldor continued. "Food is also given to each cave, and the guards leave it for us to share amongst ourselves. The more ore we haul, the more food, though other work may yield favours too."

"And that food…?" Aragorn could guess, but he would hear the answer.

"Left inside the door. We are strong enough to take what we need," Haldor answered. "Others are not."

They reached the door. Aragorn could hear footsteps on the other side. They were many, and their strides were heavy. His hearing sharpened by long darkness, he heard the slide of bolts, and the turning of keys. He flinched at the sound. Haldor gave no notice.

From the other side of the cave another group of men arrived. They counted more heads than the Rangers, but half of them — or more — had almost withered away; thin wraiths of men hovering around the stronger core, and at the front one, broad man. He was shorter than the Men of the North, but of stockier build.

His hair was dark, and his eyes a muddled blue-grey. He was the only one in the cave with flesh to spare.

The man stopped when he reached the Rangers, and stood there as if waiting for them to move aside. The Rangers did not budge, and the men around stood with them, though they shuffled in unease. The man observed them all, as if counting heads. Then his eye caught sight of Aragorn, the men a guard of honour around him.

He looked Aragorn up and down. Measuring. Weighing. Aragorn stared back. The man avoided his eyes, and turned to Haldor.

"So, Haldor," he said. "You have found your courage. Have you found your wit as well?"

But the door opened, and the guards barked their orders, "Move! Now!" and there was no time for Haldor to answer. Or for Aragorn to hear what he would have said.

"Do not speak so the guards can hear," Haldor whispered, covering his voice under the sound of movement. "And stay close."

"Anything else I should know?" Aragorn's voice was dry, yet his eyes gleamed. Haldor shook his head, but the tone in his Chieftain's words made him look one more time.

Aragorn held himself straight, restored by sleep, and but for one eye — which had blackened and closed during the night — Haldor spotted no hurt. No new hurt, he corrected himself. Slashed to the middle of the chest, the shirt did not hide the burn-mark of the Eye. The Chieftain moved as if it was not there, but Haldor could see that the burn had not healed. He had meant to ask, but now there was no time. The guards were close. Their workday began.

The Rangers moved with purpose. They kept Aragorn surrounded, shielding him from the other captives. And separating him from them. It was a lie, known but not acknowledged. Aragorn, too, felt the comfort of the lie, and clung to it while he gathered himself. The last time he had been surrounded by so many…

_Breathe. These are your men._

He followed his men, down the corridor and into a great cave. The walls were roughly hewn but the floor was covered in hard-packed earth, trampled by many feet. Along the walls torches lit up the room, and it was filled with men, and the noise of a crowd. Wooden tables and benches stood in row upon row, filled with eaters. Few looked up from their meal while there still was food in their bowls, but a few watched the Rangers when they came in. Aragorn did not notice, but his men did. Haldor kept close and guided him to the line for food, then to a table, sat him down and gave him a spoon. Aragorn ate. It was a thin gruel, with little grain and less taste, but Aragorn had not been fed since the orcs broke camp the day before.

"They fetched us last today," Taddal muttered. He sat at Aragorn's left hand.

"Faron does not look happy." Haldor, on Aragorn's right, spoke in the same, low voice.

"Faron?"

"You met him today." Haldor nodded towards the man; Faron was sitting a few tables down, surrounded by his own men, the stronger close, the weaker further away, and Aragorn recognised him. "He was one of Prince Imrahil's men-at-arms, but now he has the favour of the guards. Today it failed him. I know not why."

"I can guess," Aragorn said. The lie was still around him, promising safety. "My ill favour is greater than his good. The orcs were not happy to have their sport taken from them."

"Not the orcs alone." Taddal ate with bowed head, yet his eyes saw much.

"Not all orcs have sallow skin."

"Chieftain…"

The lie was close to breaking. Aragorn could hear it in Haldor's voice.

"They fear the mark of the Eye," he said. "Or the commander's wrath should they not heed it. They will not touch me." He added under his breath: "Not without leave."

Haldor said nothing, but Aragorn could see some of the tension leave him.

Through the rest of the meal the lie lasted. The Rangers always ate together, and they chose the tables and benches near the walls, but this day all those tables were taken. Haldor stayed close, and the Rangers kept their Chieftain between them. Even without the rangers, none of the other captives would have been able to come near: Thalion kept them at bay with the men he had gathered. Both the guards and the other prisoners noted the change: Thalion had kept to himself before, and never had the Rangers kept so close. And never since he gathered strength, had Faron and his men so carefully avoided them.

It was Gorgol, the captain of the orcs, who took it upon himself to shatter the lie.

"You! _Tark_!" he barked. The Rangers and the men of Gondor looked up, but the orc ignored them and focused on the one that did not.

"Too high and mighty for the likes of us, eh? Do not worry, _majesty_," he mocked, "we have just the place for you."

Aragorn did not answer. He scraped the last of his gruel from the bottom of the bowl. The sound of wood dragging over wood filled the cave, then Aragorn lifted the spoon and swallowed one last time. He put the spoon down before he raised his head. One eye blackened and swollen shut, but the orc captain could not endure the gaze of his other.

"No place is more fitting," Aragorn said, "than among my people."

His voice was even and measured, and in the silence of the room his words could clearly be heard by all. The Rangers gave no sign, but the Men of Gondor straightened and even the weakest of them felt, in that moment, strong.

"You belong where I tell you, _tark_!"

"Where I belong and where I must go is not the same thing."

The Rangers rose, but Aragorn motioned them to remain. They did not sit down again, but they made no move to resist when the orcs closed in on their table. Aragorn rose to meet their captain.

Gorgol grabbed Aragorn and hauled him away from the table. Or tried to. Though Aragorn was thinner than he had been, he was tall still and not easily hauled anywhere. Not by a single orc. Aragorn twisted his arm free. He said nothing, and the orc seemed too angry for words. He lifted his hand to strike, but Aragorn faced him without blinking. The cut shirt drew the eyes of the orc to the burn-mark on Aragorn's chest. Unhealed, the Eye was still clear. The captain let his hand fall. Aragorn held his eyes a moment longer, then he said:

"I can walk unaided."

…

"Kneel!"

Aragorn ignored the order. The orc captain growled, but Aragorn would not show him fear. Fear would not serve him, though the orc might be pleased to see it. Aragorn had no intention to please him.

"Kneel!"

The command hung in the air. Aragorn kept his eyes on the commander, Apam, an Easterling. He has taller than most of the orcs, but far shorter than the Dúnedain — whether from the North or South — or even the Rohirrim.

The orc lost his patience and forced Aragorn down until he was kneeling with his hands behind his head. Aragorn held the commander's eyes, as if nothing the orc did mattered.

Commander Apam did not turn away or avert his eyes. Few of the enemy had been able to hold Aragorn's gaze for long, but this commander did. He sat on a chair beside a desk filled with scrolls and parchments.

"I hope you have had a restful night, Elessar," the commander said. His voice, like his bearing, was calm and unyielding.

Aragorn did not answer. The stone was hard underneath his knees, but worn smooth by many feet.

"The Great Lord — His name be blessed — has shown you great mercy. Yet you will repay courtesy with rudeness?"

The commander's face was clam, he did not raise his voice, but the orc-captain shook Aragorn.

"Captain Gorgol." Nothing more, and the orc stopped. "Elessar," the commander continued, "will you not speak?"

"Courtesy is more than words," Aragorn answered. "I have yet to encounter it under the Shadow."

"You will learn to recognise it soon enough." Still that calm voice. "And to speak courteous in answer. For now it is enough that you see and listen." He turned, but Aragorn did not think it was to avoid his eyes. From the desk he picked up a parchment, and then turned back.

"All the workers in this mine are here to atone for their crimes against the Great Lord - may His wisdom guide us all."

Aragorn said nothing, did nothing. He did not even strain against the orc's hold, but his eyes darkened.

"I have been charged with the overseeing of this atonement, and to help any who are willing to change their ways to do so. For the Great Lord is the bringer of gifts, and His mercy extends even to His most stubborn and evil enemies.

"You, Elessar, being a hostage, are not except from either work or any other rule, but I have been given instructions." He paused, and watched Aragorn, but Aragorn refused to show him his thoughts.

"As you have understood, the Great Lord — may His reign never end — do not wish that you suffer bodily harm during your stay, for the Lord — wise beyond measure is He — will not break the promise He has given your Steward."

Aragorn did not move, but still the commander must have seen something in his face.

"You will work and obey as the others do," he said. "Do not think otherwise."

"My thoughts are my own," Aragorn answered.

"Not anymore."

At this, Aragorn's lips curled, and the commander blinked.

"I come from Barad-dûr," Aragorn said. "Do you think I will fear you and your orc?"

"I am not without resources," the commander said. "And there are other ways to make a man obey, than by pain of the body."

"You think your master has not tried them?"

The commander regarded Aragorn for a time. "The Great Lord — may His guidance never leave us — is wise," he said. "And I can not compare with His wisdom. But your men are here.

"Captain Gorgol, tell me about the meal."

Aragorn spoke before the orc could: "I understand the threat well enough. Sauron did not send me here on a whim, nor did you act on one when you sent me to a cell which holds so many of my men." He paused, and his eyes hardened. "But you are mistaken if you think you can use them against me. Sauron knows this."

"You care so little for your men?"

No repercussion for speaking out of turn. The commander must have gotten something he wanted. _Take care._

Even so, Aragorn straightened. He might have been on his knees, but it did not matter: the commander drew back, and his eyes flickered.

"I am a hostage," Aragorn said. "Before the walls of Cair Andros I bade the men resist, and not heed any threats to my life or body. Before the walls of Minas Tirith, I would have done the same. I will not make my men live knowing they have been used against me." _And I promised, and not to Faramir alone_. But _that_ Aragorn held to himself. He had already said too much.

The commander recovered quickly. "I see that you have still to learn." He rose. "Bring him."

The Orc hoisted Aragorn to his feet. "I saw you with your men, _tark_," he said. His breath was hot against Aragorn's skin, and his grip was strong. Aragorn had no leverage to break free from him. "I saw how they looked, how they moved and acted. Proud, but that pride is in vain. You'll see." The commander had already left the room, but the captain held Aragorn back. "I will break every one of them, and you will help me do it."

Aragorn shook his head. "I will never break by _your_ hand. You think Sauron will reward you? You can not even raise your hand to me."

"That's your mistake. One day the commander will order punishment, and I will be there to deliver it. I'll get to tan your hide, _tark_, and you will learn to fear my hand."

"I have seen things far more fearsome than _you."_

"Captain Gorgol!" The commander stood in the door. "I gave an order."

The orc cursed, but kept his voice too low for the commander to hear. He pushed Aragorn forward. He had to let go of him at the same time, and Aragorn slipped his hands forward over his head. He followed the commander, not wanting to give the orc an excuse to grab him again.

The tunnels twisted and turned, but they were well lit. The commander did not turn to see if he followed, but the orc-captain walked close behind; Aragorn guessed the commander did not need to check.

They did not walk for long until the commander stopped. Another room, or cave, lay on the left. The door was closed, but the commander needed no key to open it. Again, he did not check whether Aragorn followed, and Aragorn hesitated at the door. The orc made sure he did not hesitate too long.

Smoke filled his eyes — the sour smoke of bad torches. The cave was full of them, and despite the spluttering lights, Aragorn could see. He could see well enough to understand what the cave was.

"Kneel!"

The floor was rough, full of uneven, sharp edges. Aragorn did not wait for the orc to kick his feet from under him.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

Some fights were not worth fighting.

The orc grabbed the chain of his manacles and forced them back up above his head. He held it, and Aragorn's hair, in the same grip. For good measure.

"Most punishments are public," the commander said. "We find that it helps build discipline."

The idea was not unknown to him; the armies of Rohan and Gondor did the same.

"The punishments differ according to the infractions, of course," Commander Apam continued. "The most common is a few strikes with whip or stick. Enough to drive the lesson through. I am sure you are familiar with the proceedings."

Aragorn did not answer; there was no reason to.

"But do not fear. Unless my orders change, this is not a punishment which you will be subjected to." The commander spoke as if informing Aragorn that he would not be expected to eat with the commoners. "But, we also have other means of correction, for when a prisoner's ability to work is not to be hindered.

"Are you familiar with its use?"

The orc pulled on Aragorn's hair, forcing him to look at the cage that stood in the middle of the room.

_Breathe in, breathe out._

"I see that you are." Commander Apam did not need further answers, and Aragorn gave none.

"We have one at the entrance to the mines proper, so that the workers can witness any punishment: this one is for more private corrections. I believe that Captain Gorgol has one at the orc's quarters as well, and I am sure he can find one to bring to my office, should it be needed."

Commander Apam said nothing more. He watched Aragorn, and waited.

_He cannot move. The darkness is all around him, thick and heavy. Tendrils of fear creeping through the walls; unnatural fear of pale green and wraiths. Suffocating him, seeking entrance to his mind, hammering against his thoughts. And he _can not move!

_Some fights are not worth fighting._

Aragorn swallowed. "I see."

"It is well that you do." The commander nodded and the captain let Aragorn go. "Take him away. I am sure you can find a task fitting our Lord's — may His mercy never leave us —hostage."

…

When the Chieftain made to follow the orcs, Haldor moved. He did not known what he would do – he had no plan – but he knew he could not let the orc-guards take the Chieftain away. Not so soon. Not without trying. Aragorn stopped him with one word. He was Chieftain still, and King, if the guards spoke truth, and Haldor obeyed. He caught a flash in the Chieftain's eye as he sat down. Gratitude? Or relief? Haldor did not know.

But he sat, obedient, and did nothing, while Aragorn followed the orcs. The others followed his example. Taddal took the Chieftain's bowl, to retrieve his token with his own. They all refused to think he would not need it.

All that day, if day it was, Haldor toiled in the mines. He had been ordered to dig for ore, and for this once he would gladly have pushed the wagons that brought ore and slag up to the upper levels to be sorted. That task was the worst: alone and chained to the cart the prisoners were helpless. But Haldor would gladly have risked it – they were helpless wherever they worked, he argued to himself – for the chance of glimpsing his Chieftain: the wagons moved all over the mines.

Instead, Haldor was stuck at the lower levels of the mine. Thalion worked close by, and Taddal beyond that. The rest of the workers were from other cells. Most of them Men of Gondor.

They worked in silence, hours by backbreaking hours, until they had no strength left for anything but the next stroke. Still Haldor worried, and no weariness could drive the worry away.

It was not until work ended, and they all were returned to the cells, that his worry faded. Not until he saw his Chieftain again.

…

The Chieftain was in the cell when Haldor came, one of the last to make it back from work. The guards had kept Haldor longer than any of the other workers, but they had not touched him. Haldor's worry for his Chieftain drove all worry for himself away, and it was not until later he wondered why they had left him untouched.

Two Rangers stood guard at the entrance of their small cave. They were blocking Thalion, keeping him from entering. He turned to Haldor when he approached, but Haldor ignored him. He only nodded to the two Rangers and closed his ears to Thalion's words; all he thought of, was to find his Chieftain.

Aragorn sat by the wall, close to the place he slept the night before. The other Rangers kept close, shielding him from all other eyes. They shared what water there was, but few talked. Haldor could not see any new marks on his Chieftain, and to his relief the iron had been taken off his hands, if not his legs. They all wore foot-irons, though.

"Chieftain, are you well?" Haldor needed to be sure. He crouched down in front of Aragorn, and Aragorn looked up at him.

"Are you all here?" he asked. "Every ranger have asked me the same – and I think the rest of the men here would as well if you would let them near – and I do not wish to tell my tale more than once."

Before Haldor could answer, Thalion spoke from behind the wall of Rangers, his voice loud and refusing to go unheard:

"My Lord King! We would also wish to hear, both of the King's health and what tidings the King might have to share."

Haldor rose to face Thalion. "We have spoken before," he said. He had caught the wince on the Chieftain's face. But before he could speak on, his Chieftain interrupted.

"I need no spokesman, Haldor." Aragorn rose and walked up to Thalion; the rangers parted to let him through. "Do you speak for the others here?" he asked. His voice was rough, all gravel and sand. "I have no voice to speak for long, or to all at once."

Thalion bowed "I can speak to the rest, Lord King."

"What is your name?" Aragorn asked

Thalion straightened. "I am Thalion son of Hadron, my lord," he answered. "I was a knight of Dol Amroth."

"Prince Imrahil is a noble man," Aragorn said. "Join us, Thalion son of Hadron: knight of Dol Amroth."

"My King Elessar," Thalion answered, and bowed. "Lord Imrahil would not serve a lesser man: accept my service in his name. As I am able, I will serve."

Haldor did not miss how the Chieftain winced at the title, but Aragorn said nothing. He turned and sat down by the wall again. Closing his eyes for a moment, he leaned his head against his knees and waited until they all had settled around him. Haldor gestured four of the rangers to stand guard; while none besides Thalion had approached them, Haldor still did not trust any but his men to come close.

"What can you tell me?" Aragorn lifted his head and looked at Haldor.

"Less than you can tell us, Chieftain," Haldor answered. "On the day after the battle, those of us deemed fit enough, were set to clean the battle-field: to sort through and bury the dead. Four days I laboured there, sorting through the dead, before the enemy decided that the field was clean enough. The carrion-crows and the ravens grew fat while we worked, feasting on the fallen." He paused, lost in his memories. "I found Seron on the first day. He lay at the foot of the slag-hills, fallen in the first lines."

"Who else did you find?" Aragorn asked. _Who else do we know is dead?_

"I found none other of those that rode south with us," Haldor answered. "But only ten have I seen since the battle, and we do not know what fate the rest met." He hesitated. "One other I found from the North. Buried under a hill-troll on the slope he lay, the hobbit. Crushed by the weight."

Aragorn bent his head again. His hands clenched. Haldor waited, but the Chieftain did not speak, not even to urge him on. Haldor continued.

"I brought him to one of the pools. Both he and Seron rests beneath the waters: the carrion-birds will not disturb them."

Aragorn nodded, but he did not raise his head.

"Hadron and Marad we also know are dead," Haldor continued. "And Rhíhul died not two weeks ago, if our reckoning is right; we cannot tell the days for sure down here." He paused again, uncertain of whether he should speak on. Aragorn said nothing, did not move, but his unspoken question Haldor could not escape:

_Who else is dead?_

"Of the Dwarf or the Elf we have heard nothing." Some names Haldor dared not speak, even now. "And the fate of the sons of Elrond…"

"I found an Elf on the battle-field," Thalion interrupted. Haldor would have reproached him — or at least glared — had he had the heart to do so.

"He lay halfway to the Teeth." Thalion continued as if he was glad to tell his tale. "Orcs lay fallen around him, strewn like leaves around the trees in autumn. His hair was dark, but if he bore any device or sign I could not see it; the mud of the field covered him."

"Elladan," Aragorn said. The Chieftain did not raise his head. "It was Elladan, son of Lord Elrond."

"Chieftain?"

Aragorn ignored the question. He raised his head to look at Thalion. "Where did you bury him?"

"I did not." Thalion met Aragorn's gaze, but his voice was heavy: that much sense he had. "I could not. I brought him to the carts, but there were two orcs among the guards; when they saw the body, they cried in glee and carried him away. I did not see them again."

Aragorn closed his eyes. His knuckles whitened, and his hands shook slightly.

"Chieftain?" Haldor asked again.

Aragorn opened his eyes, but they were distant; he saw into memories, but what memories Haldor could not tell. When he spoke, his voice did not tremble or hitch, but it was dead.

"Elrohir told me of his brother's death. Less than a month ago I guess it was, though I could not count the days. He said he had never expected to outlive his brother by so long."

"Lord Elrohir still lives?" Haldor asked. "Chieftain, where…?"

"No," Aragorn answered. He crossed his arms, hid this hands underneath his armpits. "They are both dead, now." He made as if to say more, but stopped himself and fell silent, and the Rangers did not press him. Even Thalion waited in silence. But Aragorn never spoke of Elrohir again, save to one. When he broke the silence, it was to speak of other things; of Imrahil and the healer and the fall of Minas Tirith.

"I do not know how much time has passed since our defeat," he said. "I was taken to the Dark Tower after Midsummer, but I do not know how long they kept me there."

"By the time of work and the time of rest, we reckon that half a year has already passed," Haldor answered.

"Chieftain," Taddal said. "Why were you held in Minas Tirith for so long?"

"Lord Imrahil and I were brought to ensure the Steward's surrender." Aragorn's voice was flat.

"But he surrendered long before Midsummer. Forgive me, Chieftain, but there must be more to that tale."

"Yes," Aragorn answered, "but I will not speak of it."

And he did not. It was not until later that they learned about the coronation, and not from the King Elessar himself. He asked them instead to tell what had happened to them after the first night, and how they had come to this mine. Haldor spoke for them, telling of the long walk when they were forced, chained in rows, to march across the Dark Land.

"I was not questioned," Haldor said. "Perhaps they did not see the need. I was sent here and put to work at once; they did not even ask me my name, but branded me with a number."

"We all were," Durion broke in. "The healers sorted us by strength and injuries, and now we are but bodies to toil and sweat and increase the Enemy's hoard."

Aragorn shook his head. "To strengthen his armies and weapons: it is iron we dig, not gold."

Haldor nodded. "At first there were only Men here, old slaves or prisoners from the battle. Not all have survived, but since then, more slaves have arrived. It is hard to tell time here with no sun or moon, but I guess it was some months after our defeat.

"The new slaves are Elves, Chieftain. They keep us apart, but during the work our paths sometimes cross close enough to see."

"Do you know where they are from?" Aragorn asked.

"Some of them," Haldor answered. "I recognised an elf from lord Elrond's household, and a few looked like they could have been from the Golden Wood. But if people from both Imladis and Lothlórien have been captured…?"

"Both Lord Elrond and the Lady Galadriel and in the Enemy's hands," Aragorn said. "I have seen them." He unfolded his arms, and rubbed his wrists. The skin was red and shafted, but unbroken. Haldor wondered how long he had borne chains: there were marks which told of wounds and healing.

"The Enemy must have had troops further north already," Aragorn continued, "or the North would not have fallen as quick. I have heard no tidings of Mirkwood, or of Dain's kingdom or Dale, but that means little. What I was told, was not to bring tidings."

"And can we trust what have been told?"

"Not all. The Mouth told me that Éomer King had fallen, but I learned later that it was not so. He escaped, as I had hoped, and brought warning to Minas Tirith. The Lady Éowyn and Merry, the hobbit, went with him when he fled further, and with him went those that could." Aragorn let his hands rest, and leant back against the wall. "I do not think Rohan has fallen yet.

"But these are matters we can do little about. What of this place? How many work in the mine, and how many guards are there?"

"We work in shifts," Haldor answered. "It is impossible to tell how many prisoners there are here. This cell, and each in this corridor I guess, holds at least fifty men, but I do not know how many cells there are. And there are other corridors. There could be hundreds of us; I have not seen all the tunnels of the mine."

"And guards?"

"When we work, it looks like there are one or two guards on duty for any ten of us."

"Too few to watch us all at once, then," Aragorn said. "And the tunnels and shafts are narrow and dark."

"Chieftain?"

Aragorn did not answer. "Where are we now?" he asked instead. "I… could not see the way."

"The Ash Mountains," Haldor said. "Five or six days' march south-east the Tower. I think; the sun was hidden." He caught a glint in his Chieftain's eye, the first since he had been returned to them. He winced. "We are deep into the Dark Land," he said. "The Ered Lithui…"

"I know," Aragorn answered. His eyes hardened. "It can still be done."

"With luck perhaps one or two could escape the mine, and even keep hidden long enough to reach the outer mountains," Haldor concurred. "But then? Even if the mountains can be travelled, there will be no food or water."

Badhor interrupted: "Better to die up there, than to live here."

Haldor turned to Badhor. "Death is easy," he said. "And easy to find in this place. Have you not been there yet; at the edge of the shaft plunging down so deep, it could as well have been the chasm beneath the bridge of Khazad-dûm? Where the upward draft of air is hot and sulphurous as a dragon's breath? I have. I have seen the darkness of that pit, and smelled that air, and knew that one more step, one small step will free me from these chains. One step, and I am flying on the warm air, and the guards cannot stop me."

He fell silent, but Badhor answered: "I have. I stood there with my brother by my side.

"He stepped. I remain."

…

* * *

**A/N**: I am sorry it has taken so long to get the new chapter uploaded. I became aware of later developments which meant I had to do some changes to this chapter, and I needed to decide on some changes to the coming events before I could make all the changes. The next chapter, too, might take more work to ready for publishing, but I hope to get back to my regular postings before summer.

Thanks, as always, goes to the wonderful people on **Garden of Ithilien** and my beta **JAUL** who helps me weed out those pesky mistakes. If any remains, they are entirely my own fault. I also need to thank the people on **Writers Anonymous **who helped me with making up my mind on the later events.

And last, but not least: my reviewers and readers. Knowing that you are there, reading and enjoying this story, is of immense importance for me. I am a bit behind with answering all reviews, but I am working my way through them.


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